Gentlemen of Fortune
by dirksies
Summary: Before Long John Silver was a pirate hunting for treasure, he was John Silver, a cabin boy serving under the infamous Captain England, the most feared sailor on the seven seas.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note_: I thought this story deserved something of an intro mostly because I feel people might see it as completely random/just another Pirate England fic*. I was reading Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson a couple months ago and I came across a discussion that Long John Silver has where he mentioned that he sailed with England, and refers to it as Captain England, aka not the Royal Navy (I know, right?). Well, after my fangasm, I promptly got to writing this story. So basically, what I wanted to say is THIS IS CANON (sort of). Enjoy!

*Oh, this reminds me, this is my first Hetalia fic...I'm not sure if this means I've crossed into the Dark Side or what.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1:<strong> _The Captain's Fancy_

The stormy summer sky thundered as fat rain drops fell on the cobblestone street. Even though it was only five or so in the evening, it might as well have been midnight. Citizens of the colony flitted from store front to store front, trying to keep out of the rain as much as possible, lifting skirts out of puddles or holding hats tightly to heads. The wind gusted the rain at a brutal angle, ensuring that even hiding under the protection of an awning would not help with keeping dry, as a particular pair, a rather tall gentleman and a young boy, scuttled around through the gale to a modest looking tavern. The sign reading _The Captain's Fancy_ near the door banged against the wall as another crack of thunder echoed through the city as the two rushed through the door.

Shaking the water off as soon as they got through the doorway, curious eyes flicked at the pair before returning to their meals or nursing their tankards. _The Captain's Fancy_ was known for its varied clientele; being so close to the dock it often saw the lowliest of the King's sailors or the roughest of buccaneers just finishing months long voyages at sea (sometimes the two were not mutually exclusive). But because of the quality of food and the sheer primacy of the location, those who had the coin and prestige to fund or captain said voyages could also be found enjoying the hospitalities of _The Captain's Fancy_. The tavern consisted of a bar where a rather imposing African woman filled glasses with a smile, but also with the nimble, capable hands of someone who knew the job. The tables scattered around the remainder of the room ranged in sizes from those fit for a banquet at the center of the room to more quiet parties out of the fire and scattered lamplight. The rain continued to pound on the roof distantly overhead as the noise in the room returned to a light murmur and tobacco smoke filled the air.

The two at the door finished drying off as much as possible and looked around. The younger of the two seemed to be around 8 and bore a wide-eyed, honest expression, sharp blue eyes taking in the entirety of the room as one piece of hair that refused to stay flat from its wetting bounced around merrily. The older man, clearly a refined British gentleman, bore a scowl underneath the bushiest eyebrows in the Empire, though whether this was from the weather or the eating establishment was difficult to say. The two bore a strong resemblance, clearly they were family of some sort; although the British gentleman's eyes were green, his hair was roughly the same blond shade.

The woman at the bar gave a quick nod to the two guests as the young boy grabbed the elder's hand and tugged him across the room. "C'mon, Arthur, let's get a table! I'm hungry," he said, voice high and excited, apparently unaffected by the weather.

The elder man grumbled, though his fondness for the boy was such that a small smile flashed across his face as he allowed himself to be dragged across the room. The boy pulled the man to the far side of the room, remembering his manners enough to pull out the chair for the older man before taking a seat for himself. The gentleman chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair as the youth bounded around the table, energy endless. A waitress came to the table in due time to get their orders, interrupting the boy's flow of steady babble, as the storm continued to rage on, and left soon after, receiving a quick, but not unfriendly, order for food and drink from the two.

"I ne'er figur'd ye fer a father figure, cap'n," came a voice out of the gloom of the tavern.

Arthur positively bolted, swinging his head around to peer into the darkness. The boy leaned to the side to look as well and saw an elderly man, much older than his Arthur. The man's face was deep-lined by the sun and long years, and clean shaven. Smoke curled around the man's head from the long pipe he was smoking and a parrot rested drowsily on his shoulder. He had the look of a man that had lived life richly and fully and now sought time of remembrance and reflection, though the tankard next to him perhaps spoke against this. He was a sailor, no doubt about it, as were most men in the area.

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, body tense as he looked over the man. Had he met him before? And how on earth—?

"By the powers," muttered the man in shadows, "Ye 'aven't changed a bit." A strange smile seemed to flit across the man's face before it disappeared and he nudged the bird on his shoulder awake. "Lookie 'ere, Flint, it's the cap'n."

The bird, on her part, shook her head and blinked a few times, ruffling her feathers and puffing herself up at the indignity of being so rudely awoken, muttering darkly about 'pieces of eight'. Then she paused, finally catching sight of the British gentleman who now looked nervously at the pair. The bird let out an excited screech, flapping her wings in joy as pushed herself up off the man's shoulders and flew instead to Arthur's.

The boy sharing the man's table let out a most undignified whoop, cheering as the bird headed toward the gentleman. As the boy jumped up to try and catch the bird, his chair clattered to the floor and whoever was not already paying attention to the ruckus was now.

Frantically trying to regain control of the situation, Arthur waved his arms around his head, trying to prevent the bird landing, which Flint skillfully dodged, before she landed resolutely on the British man's shoulder. Arthur shot a look to the boy to settle down, which the boy only belatedly realized before the older man tried to pry the bird off of his shoulder, two angry red patches glowing on his cheeks. The bird's talons solidly gripped the fabric, and the skin, of its new perch as it lovingly nuzzled the nape of Arthur's neck, and, no matter how hard Arthur tried to remove the bird, she blatantly refused to move, even nipping Arthur once for his trouble.

The boy finally got the message in Arthur's look as he quietly muttered 'sorry' and re-righted his chair, flashing a smile to the rest of the tavern which seemed to resettle them as well—they turned back to their dining, they had seen odder things—before turning back to the older man. "You didn't tell me you had a parrot," said the boy, almost accusingly, reaching out to stroke the rainbow colored plumage before quickly pulling back as the bird attempted a nip at his fingers.

"Be careful, Alfred," admonished Arthur gruffly, giving the bird a smack on the beak, "parrots are not nice."

"Not nice, not nice," the bird echoed, shaking her head side to side before returning to nuzzling Arthur.

"But is this your parrot or not?" asked the boy, sitting on his hands now so as not to try and touch the bird, legs swinging back and forth, no worse for wear after the threat from Flint.

"She 'asn't bin—na' fer a long while a'least," said the man in the corner, reaching down to the side to grab a crutch, which Alfred and Arthur just noticed was resting on the floor, to help pull himself up and limp over to their table, grabbing a chair to add to the table as he moved.

The boy beamed at the man as he walked, practically bouncing with the excitement of meeting someone new, eyes quickly flicking to the man's missing leg, taking it in stride, before looking up at the weather-worn face again. "Do you know Arthur?" he asked, excitedly.

"Aye, tha' I do," said the sailor, settling down heavily in the chair before turning and eyeing Arthur. "Hallo, cap'n."

Arthur sat as stiff as a board, not returning the affections of the bird nor acknowledging the man who had just joined the table. "Come, Alfred, it's time to go."

"But, we haven't eaten yet," blinked the boy. "And it would be rude to leave when we just met someone." He added, almost seeming to echo something he had heard Arthur say, giving the man a reproachful look.

The sailor let out a bark of laughter, belly rolling with the sound. "Aye, et would! And as the manigeer o' this fine establishment, I insist ye stay fer awhile." Even though the way the sailor said it was friendly enough, it did not seem like a request.

Arthur finally turned to look coolly at the man, his voice slipping an octave lower than before and an odd lilt adding itself to his speech, eyes flashing a dangerous green. "Y' always used ta drive a hard bargain, Silver." His eyes, taking on a more primitive spark, were hard as he looked at the old sailor.

"So you do know him," Alfred concluded joyfully, eyes flicking from his guardian to Silver, not noticing, or not caring to notice the change that had come over the British man.

Silver nodded slowly, placing the pipe back in his mouth before inhaling slowly and exhaling just as slowly, smoke blowing out with his breath. The atmosphere was tense, though Alfred hardly noticed as he now only had eyes for the old sailor puffing at his pipe. "'e was me cap'n many years ago. I joined 'is crew when I was na' much older 'n ye."

"Wow, you used to be a captain of a ship?" asked Alfred, turning to gape up at Arthur. The man nodded stiffly, not meeting the boy's eyes as he continued to stare at Silver, eyes holding a warning. "That's so cool! Tell me about it, please?" the boy begged, looking eagerly from Arthur to Silver.

"Y' don' want ta hear stories about tha', Alfred," replied Arthur shortly, glaring daggers at the sailor, lilt still in his voice.

Alfred pouted slightly, not noticing the tension. "Ye 'ave nothin' ta be ashamed of," said Silver, blowing out another puff of smoke before turning to look at Alfred, "I'll 'ave ye know tha' yer father 'ere was one the world's greatest buccaneer."

"You were a pirate?" asked Alfred, eyes round and mouth a small "o" at same time that Arthur ejected, "'e's not ma son."

Silver smiled blithely as Arthur flushed, face otherwise an emotionless mask. "Alfred, would y' please go n' check on our food?" asked Arthur suddenly, not looking at the boy, eyes still hard on the sailor.

"But—," began Alfred.

"Now, boy," said Arthur, voice very gruff, harsher than Alfred had ever heard it. Alfred swallowed quickly and nodded, scooting his chair back with his legs, making it scrape against the ground, before dashing over to the bar counter, shooting a worried look back at his guardian. Upon reaching the counter, he pulled himself up on a stool and began an earnest conversation, presumably about food, with the African woman there. She obliged the young man, her eyes flicking once to Silver who nodded.

"Charmin' woman, en't she?" commented Silver, loose smile still on his face.

"John," said Arthur shortly, taking great pains to control himself, the lilt slipping out of his voice. "I will not have you filling the boy's head with nonsense."

"S'not nonsense," said Silver, face becoming serious even as he lowered his voice. "Tha' b'y 'as a right ta know yer story as much as anyone. 'Specially if 'e's one o' ye—"

"I'll have no talk about that, either," snapped Arthur, cutting Silver off. The two stared at each other and then Silver snorted.

"I don' know wha' ye 'ave ta be afraid of." He shook his head slowly as Arthur scowled. "The b'y loves ye, an' nothin' I say 'ill change tha'." He paused, giving Arthur a look over with a critical eye. "Ye were the best cap'n I ever 'ad. Ev'ryone has done tings they regret, but raisin' me—well, I know tha's somethin' I don' want ta forget."

Arthur swallowed, a peculiar expression crossing his face as he looked away, blinking rapidly as he stared at the fire across the room. "I've na' done much ta be proud of," he muttered, lilt creeping back into his voice.

"Yer raisin' tha' b'y, an' ye took me under yer wing when I was naught bu' a mite like 'im," said Silver, emotion creeping into his voice. "Ye 'ave ta confront both the good an' the bad b'fore ye can move on."

"Ne'er took y' ta be so philosophical," said Arthur wryly, turning back to look at Silver, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Silver laughed his belly chuckle, which, in its mirth, caused Arthur to join in. "Mus' be ma old age," said Silver, tipping his cap to his former captain.

"I got the food!" said Alfred suddenly, bounding back over to the table, the waitress trailing behind him with a fully laden tray as well as a fresh tankard for Silver. She quickly set all the proper food before each patron and her boss before scurrying away, off to tend to more guests.

"So are you going to tell me the pirate story?" asked Alfred around a mouthful of food.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," instructed Arthur, forcing himself back into his more refined voice. He traded a quick look with Silver who nodded. The old sailor understood. His captain still needed time to heal, but this would help. Even so, a faint smile played at the corner of his mouth and he had absentmindedly begun to stroke Flint's feathers, acknowledging the bird for the first time, gazing off into the distance at something only he could see.

"How's about _I_ tell ye a story," said Silver smoothly, distracting the youth from his guardian.

"Okay," the boy cheered, remembering just in time to finish his bite before he spoke.

"There's a good lad," murmured Arthur fondly, ruffling the lad's hair, which Alfred attempted to dodged, slightly annoyed look on his face. Silver paused, a thoughtful smile on his lips, watching the interaction and remembering one much like it many years ago.

"Righ', so like I said, I was na' much older n' ye when I wen' ta Portsmouth looking ta join 'is Majesty's Navy. Et was a sunny Spring day in 16- -…"

* * *

><p>AN: Hopefully the accents didn't make it too difficult to understand what everyone was saying. I'm trying my best to make sure they stay consistent throughout the story. And I apologize if they are widely inaccurate to how they actually sound. For future reference, non-accented speech generally means "common" British English (however much mileage you get out of that phrase is a bit beyond me), except for Alfred who's speaking an American/British hybrid that I wasn't sure what would sound like anyway*.

So, did you love it? Hate it? I don't care, just review it!

*I've always been curious when the American standard accent became distinguishable from the British standard accent. Was there a clear difference before the American Revolution? Did it emerge later as a protest or did it occur naturally? And now I'm babbling...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** And here we start with where John is actually the age he is in the description and Arthur is busy being a pir-er Gentleman of Fortune. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2:<strong> The Red Queen

After thanking the farmer who had given him a lift into Portsmouth in the early hours of the morning, John half-fancied that he could handle this new experience of the big city on his own, maybe he would even be able to find the docks for the Royal Navy without asking for directions, surely it was easy enough to find. He was sadly mistaken. With the cresting of the sun over the horizon, the city began to stir and mutter before bursting into full consciousness, proclaiming all manner of goods to be bought and sold in the port's marketplace. Sounds from all over the world echoed around John as smells he had never smelled before saturated his nose. Before he knew it, John found himself amongst the hubbub of the city in the midst of the vendors hawking their wares. At one moment in particular, he was jostled rather gruffly to the side as an eager bird salesman, freshly tanned from voyages in the New World, touted his products, beautifully colored birds of all sizes on large topless crosses, the birds' feet chained to the rod.

Carefully and quickly trying to recompose himself, John resettled his bag only to feel an odd tugging on it. Wiping himself around, he caught a disheveled, filthy little man with his hand unashamedly in the pack, innocent expression on his face. "Hey!" was all John managed before the man bolted away, John's small red purse in his hand. John quickly gave chase.

Pursuing the man through the winding streets of Portsmouth was a difficult job in itself, made all the more difficult as the thief dodged around sellers in the marketplace, and unfortunately, the thief seemed to know the area very well. Over barrels, through back alleyways, around and into various tents and shops, the thief ran and John followed, both gasping for air.

"Help!" John cried. "Stop that man!" he yelled from time to time as he ran, but eventually stopped, deciding to use his breath for running as the chase continued on.

Suddenly up ahead of the running pair, a large wagon blocked the street, the driver, a farmer, trying to calm down his finicky horse as the he brought his Spring produce to market. The thief just managed to get around the slow moving wagon, squeezing through the last available space before the horse began to buck and the wagon to shudder dangerously. John gritted his teeth before sliding underneath the wheels of the wagon, swinging his pack to his front so he could slide more smoothly, emerging quickly on the other side, much to the surprise of the thief.

"Determine' one, en't ya?" asked the thief half-exasperated, half-impish before turning on his heel, taking off again, reconvening the chasing.

John just groaned in frustration before sucking in another breath to continue running, righting his pack as he ran. The thief ran John by a couple vendors from the New World, vibrant fruits on display which the thief promptly knocked to the ground, hoping John would trip over them. Breaths emerging in grunts, John jumped and dodged the rolling fruit, slightly off-balance from his pack, sweat rolling down his face. Angry protests from the vendors echoed behind him as the thief sharply turned a corner, making a right, sliding slightly on the grim of the streets. John made the turn more smoothly, shooting a scowl to the thief as the man glanced over his shoulder to check to see if John was still there.

At this point, the thief seemed about as frustrated as John was as he tipped his head down, digging into some hidden depths that the thief had not ever really had to use before to gain speed to hopefully outstrip the persistent boy, continuing his dodging around and through the marketplace. John added on the speed as well; there was one advantage to growing up in the country, endless supplies of energy.

The thief made his first mistake when he tried to dodge through the tent of a rug seller from the Orient. The air under the tent was smoky with the reek of opium as the thief jumped over a particularly hefty pile of rugs, glancing over his shoulder to check once again on John's progress. Unfortunately the man missed his footing on the landing, tripping into a series of jars, smashing them as he fell. The next thing he knew he was looking into the face of his pursuer, smelling all at once like a fine lady, a stuffy, old gentleman, and tomorrow night's supper.

"At this point," panted John, glaring down at the man sitting amongst the crushed jars of seasoning and perfume, "you have to wonder if it's worth it."

The thief seemed to consider this, fingering the fabric of John's purse before bolting away again. "Oh, come _on_," moaned John, following the man again, leaving the squawking merchant behind him. At this point, this was getting a little ridiculous, John realized, but that purse held the entirety of the allowance given to him by his family. If he were to lose it now, that would either mean returning home or taking up the position of a beggar himself. John wasn't sure which option was worse.

So John continued to pursue the man. If he had cared to notice the path the thief was following, he would have seen that the man was gradually making his way to the docks. This should have concerned John for the mere fact that once the thief was allowed to get among the nooks and crannies of the Portsmouth harbor, he would have been almost impossible to find. Fortunately, though, John did not end up having to worry about this as the thief made his second mistake.

After dodging around a fisherman hefting the crate of his catch onto a wagon, the thief made another sharp turn, this time to the left, catching himself with his hands on the ground as he propelled himself around the corner under an arch way, before coming to a sharp stop. Not noticing quite in time that the thief had stopped running, John instead plowed into the man and grabbed him on instinct, not letting the man escape again. It was only then that John glanced around the panting thief that he saw what made the man stop.

Before the huffing pair was the auctioneer's block for the Slave Trade. Dark skinned African natives stood huddled to the left, waiting to be plucked from the mass and paraded before the buying crowd. Men from all walks of life stood in the audience, comparing numbers, prices, and descriptions to the slaves before them, raising their hands emotionlessly to place their bids. John, however, suspected that this was not what gave the thief pause as armed British soldiers stood on either side of the stage as well as at each entrance to prevent the chained slaves from even thinking about escaping.

Whatever the reason was, John rested control of his purse from the thief, opening the drawstring one-handed and fingering all the money within. Good, it was all still there.

Glancing up, John quickly looked around and noticed the soldiers beginning to take interest in the thief and himself. More importantly, he also realized he had no idea where he was. Mind working quickly, he changed his grip on the man, taking his hand that was clutching the man's filthy clothes and slinging it over the man's shoulder, still ensuring that the man was not going anyway. John knew that if he got caught with the thief, he would be considered just as much of a troublemaker and it would take precious time for John to convince the solider that he was innocent. Time he didn't have. John wanted as little fuss as possible, especially after how much of an ordeal this turned out to be. Besides, the thief owed him a good turn.

"I've got a deal for you," he muttered into the man's ear. Even though he wasn't very tall for twelve years old, the thief was especially short for whatever age he was, so the two were approximately the same height. "If you tell me how to get to the docks of the Royal Navy, I'll get you away from here without getting arrested."

The thief looked at John as if he had just gone mad, but then the man's eyes flicked to the soldiers whose growing attention was even drawing the interest of the audience; the guard closest to them was clearly beginning to consider moving from his position as his eyes flicked to the man who was evidently the commanding officer up on the stage. Nodding frantically, the thief tried to turn around, wanting to get away from the guards as fast as possible.

"Ah, one more thing," said John, talking quickly now as he saw time slipping away, "don't try to steal anything more from me or I will call the guards."

"A'righ', a'righ', can we git a move on now?" said the thief sweating, but for an entirely different reason than the cross-city run. The nearest guard had final gotten the message from his superior and was moving gravely toward John and the thief.

John nodded in turn, carefully turning himself and the thief around, arm still around the man's shoulder, purse as far away from the smelly man as he could manage. "Okay, now laugh," said John, through gritted teeth, eyes darting over to the guard before plastering a huge smile on his face.

"Wha—?" asked the thief, eyes nervously hopping from the approaching guard to the exit.

"Trust me," said John through his goofy smile before laughing in the thief's face. The thief blinked stunned for a moment before joining in the laughter, either from finally going insane or because he understood what John was playing at. The two leaned against each other, cackling like maniacs as they tottered out of the auction area, leaving one very confused guard behind.

The two walked about a block, cackling like two possessed hyenas before suddenly dropping the façade and springing apart; John rechecking his bag and purse, the thief running his hand along his shoulders where John's arm had rested for so long, rubbing the spot.

"Tha' was righ' clever, tha' was," said the man earnestly, a mixture of respect and wariness now on the thief's face.

"Thanks," said John after checking through his pack and purse and finding everything accounted for. "But you've yet to tell me where the Royal docks are."

"Aye," acknowledged the thief, looking pointedly at the purse in John's hand.

"I've helped you escape potential arrest, chased you half way across the city, and I can yell for the guards to come get you right now and you still want incentive?" asked John flatly.

The thief just blinked at him and John heaved a sigh, before digging around in his purse to flick the thief a two pence piece. Deftly catching the coin, the thief pointed down the street and to the right. "Yer about there, jus' faller tha' street and 'ead to tha' righ'. You'll see tha main office w'ere they take tha' new recruits in sich," reported the thief quickly before turning and scurrying away.

"Thanks a lot," muttered John as he watched the retreating back of the thief dip around a corner, and then turned to follow his directions, hoping that the thief did not lie as a last trick.

Fortunately for John, the thief's instructions were true and John found himself in front of the Royal Navy headquarters in Portsmouth in a matter of minutes. Nervously shifting the pack on his back, he attempted to resettle his appearance after the chase through the city, carefully reworking his shoulder-length blond hair back into a presentable ponytail, and brushing the dirt off his clothes that would come off. Wincing as he stood upright, he noted the stains present on his pants and shirt and sighed, no doubt he did not look like the son of a retired, pensioned naval officer that he did when his mother said goodbye to him the morning before. As it was, there was no going back now, he thought shaking his head slightly before pulling the letter of reference from his father out of his pocket. Letting air rush out of his mouth in another sigh, he stepped into the building.

Inside the Royal Naval building, people bustled around almost as much as they did out in the market with the notable exception that there were more men in uniform than there were out in the market. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going and they all had very important things to do once they got there because no one hardly spent a moment to glance to the young boy who had just passed through the door. John hesitated at the door, suddenly overwhelmed with nerves; it was one thing to talk to a beggar who had just stolen his purse, it was a completely different thing to try to talk to one of these important figures. Swallowing slowly, John tried to get the attention of one of the sailors.

He quickly found an "excuse me, please" did not go very far as three consecutive passersby ignored him completely. He also found out a "pardon me" with a tug on the arm did not help much either, as four sailors hardly glanced at him and one gave John a rather rude shove. John scowled at the situation, looking around in frustration at the busy scene, deciding to just pick someone, approach them, and ask them flat out to help him. This was easier said than done because John still did not feel quite comfortable walking up to someone who clearly had important business to do, and everyone seemed to have important business to do. Nibbling his lip and scanning the room, John rubbed the straps of his pack and then froze, making eye contact with, what seemed, the only man who was not off to do something important. The man was a rather slight one but taller than John, lithe like a dancer with mousy brown hair. Appearing to be in his late twenties, the man's face nonetheless bore hard lines from months out at sea. His clothes were a little rougher than the others around him, but he held himself in the same way as they did, sure of himself. The man shot John a smile before pushing himself up from the wall he was leaning against and wandering over to John, relaxed hands in his pockets.

"So, y' lookin' ta join the Royal Navy?" asked the man lazily, raising his voice to be heard over the general clamor of the space.

"I hope so, sir," said John eagerly, happy that someone had noticed him, still running his hand nervously along a strap of his pack. "My father was in the Royal Navy, and I would like to follow his example."

"Na' tha's an a'mirable goal," acknowledged the man, looking Jim over with an expert's eye.

"So, if you wouldn't mind showing me where to sign up as a cabin boy, I would be much obliged," continued John, now moving both hands to rub his father's letter, paper crinkling underneath his fingers.

"Was tha' y' got there?" asked the man curiously, voice innocent enough.

John smiled nervously and stopped rubbing the parchment. "It's a letter from my father, a reference to join 'England on the high seas'," John declared, repeating a phrase he had often heard his father use.

The man blinked at John oddly, giving the boy a second look over. "Y' want ta sail wif England?" he asked.

"Aye, sir," responded John eagerly.

"Well, ye're in luck! Et jus' so 'appens tha' we're lookin' fer a cabin boy," exclaimed the man, thumping John suddenly on the back, knocking the wind out of him with his rough hands. Even though the man looked thin, he had ample muscles under his skin.

"Thank you, sir," coughed John, struggling to protest as he regained his breath. He wanted to sail with the Royal Navy, not whatever crew this man was from, but the other man did not stick around long enough to hear the boy's protest.

"Come along," said the man jovially, gesturing for the boy to catch up, which John quickly did, not sure of what else to do. "Me name's Matthew Pence. I'm a deckhand, I am."

John nodded in acknowledgment. "I'm John Silver," he said shortly, trying to keep pace with the man as the pair exited through the door John had just entered and wandered down toward the docks. "I was just going to say—"

The man, however did not seem to notice John's introduction or anything else he had said as the deckhand continued talking. "I've b'n sailin' wif England fer about five years now," babbled the amiable man, long easy strides twice John's own so the boy had to trot to keep up. "The cap'n's a good man, I s'pect y'll like 'im, so i's a pretty good deal overall." Matthew continued in a similar manner, yammering on about this or that particularity of the captain as the pair wound their way to the docks, dodging the lines of smaller fishing boats and local crafts.

Eventually, Matthew lead John to a particularly long pier where a small dinghy was tied, bobbing quietly in the waves. A somewhat sour faced boy sat near the rope that held the small craft to the dock, clearly keeping watch over the boat, whittling at a piece of wood with a small knife. The boy glanced up at the sound of the approaching pair, unruly dark hair slipping into his face, though not enough to cover his cold, bright green eyes. Frown flashing onto his face almost on a matter of reflex, the boy chucked the piece of wood into the water before standing up, examining John as the pair approached him, shoving the knife into his pocket.

"This wha' ye found?" asked the boy unimpressed once Matthew and John reached him, sarcasm evident in his voice. He was taller than John and perhaps a year older, and used both of these to his advantage as he scowled down at the shorter boy.

"Don' be so ready ta judge, Flint," said Matthew cheerfully, thumping John heavily on the shoulder again, almost toppling the boy into the water. "Said 'e wanted ta sail wif England, 'e did." John swung his arms around, doing an excellent impression of the windmill near his home to keep from falling in the water as the other boy just chuckled darkly, still unconvinced.

Sticking out his jaw stubbornly, John glared back at the boy after regaining his balance before turning to Matthew, clearly the friendlier member of the party. "Where are you taking me? I said I wanted to join the _Royal Navy_," John finally protested, glancing quickly around to assure himself that there were not any Navy ships nearby. A sinking feeling in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he might have been tricked however unintentionally.

"Bu' y' said y' wanted ta sail wif England," said Matthew, genuinely confused, scratching his chin as if in deep thought.

"Aw, leave th' boy 'ere," said Flint frustrated, waving a dismissal to John before turning to climb down into the little craft, immediately noticing the other boy's more refined speech. "'e's prob'bly too lily-liver ta sail wif England." The boy sneered as he looked at John. "Go a'ead and join tha Royal Navy, they need more softies like ye."

At this point, John was thoroughly confused about the situation and, more prominently, rather irritated at the rude boy. It could only stand to reason that the "England" that they were talking about was an actual person and not the Royal Navy, but who on earth would go around sailing under the name England was beyond him. Not to mention if he joined the Royal Navy he would not have to put up with the likes of Flint. John was in half a mind to turn around and try to find his way back to the Royal Navy headquarters to sign up to sail with the _real_ England, the Royal Navy, but as he turned, he caught a strange smirk on the boy Flint's face. Something that seemed to say "I knew you couldn't handle it." That settled it for John, if there was anything that really irritated him; it was someone saying he could not do something.

"I really though' y' wanted ta sail wif England," Matthew was saying bemusedly when John's pack suddenly thunked into the bottom of the dinghy and John climbed in, flashing a defiant expression at the other boy. Matthew blinked down at John and Flint, finding himself the only one still on the dock. "Well, glad y' changed y'r mind! Le's git back ta the Red Queen," he declared, swinging off the dock with practiced ease and untying the little boat in the same motion, joining the other two boys.

Matthew took the rudder as the two boys each grabbed an oar, settling into an unspoken competition as they tried to out-row each other. Chatting obliviously, Matthew carefully guided the little craft through the larger ships anchored farther away from the docks, winding among frigates, schooners, and swoops of the harbor. John and Flint panted in unwitting synchronization, matching each other in pulling strength, sweating evenly.

After a few minutes of rowing, Matthew's voice finally broke through the panting of the two boys. "Ah, there's the Red Queen," exclaimed the man, pointing to a ship behind John's and Flint's backs.

Without even realizing it, John turned to look, catching a glimpse of a modestly sized Brig with fresh cream sails on two masts and odd red trimming on the ship's wood before Flint grunted in annoyance and John resumed rowing. It was mere seconds later when the dinghy bumped against the larger craft and a ladder was lowered. Without even waiting for a "guests first" Flint scrambled up the ladder with the ease of someone who had done it before. John frowned up after the boy, arms and back throbbing from the hard rowing, but refusing to admit it.

"Don' mind 'im," said Matthew cheerfully, catching the ladder to steady it, nodding to John to be the next up it. "'e's like tha' ta everyone."

John flashed the man a quick thankful smile before pulling on his pack and scrambling up the ladder himself. Quickly climbing his way up the ladder, John passed a series of cannon holes and received the chance to further inspect the intricate red trimming that seemed to line the entire ship. Patterns of red roses entangled in ivy surrounded the entire boat, somewhat faded by years at sea, but still visible. Finally cresting the ship's deck, the first thing John saw was a pleasant faced man with a fine black mustache, curled to a point at both ends. He offered a hand up, which John accepted, as the man's enormous hat bobbed with the movement. Feeling the somewhat pleasant sensation of being lifted over the gunwale by a man much stronger than him before being set onto the ship's deck, John glanced at the new space, catching a glimpse of Flint's back through the crowd of sailors as the boy ducked down the stairs into the hold.

"Well, you must be the new cabin boy Master Pence was charged to bring," said the dark-haired, mustached man, looking John over for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Men on either side of the mustached man were throwing ropes to Matthew down in the dinghy, helping to haul it out of the water and tie it to the ship.

"Aye, sir," said John carefully, looking at the man in turn, trying to guess the man's position.

The man chuckled, guessing what the boy was thinking. "I'm not the captain, not even the first mate. M'name's Owen Masters, second mate o' this ship," said the man, sweeping off his enormous hat and giving an extravagant bow, revealing dark brown, curly hair, before righting himself, placing the hat jauntily back on his head, and offering John a hand to shake.

John smiled in turn and shook the man's hand. "I'm John Silver, sir." Second Mate Owen Masters was dressed rather eccentrically, as if to compliment his enormous, feathered hat. The ruffled sleeves of his undershirt poked out from beneath his long multicolored, multi-fabric jacket. Twin, gold pistols stuck out from the man's pants pockets, which he seemed to display with pride—the pants, that is, not the pockets, as the pants seemed to be made of some rich, creamy fabric. It took John a couple minutes to fully take in the man's entire wardrobe and another few hours to fully appreciate it.

"Dawdling with the new recruit?" asked a stern voice over John's shoulder, making him jump.

Second Mate Masters suddenly grabbed a hold of John's shoulders and swung the boy around, revealing a dour faced man in rather formal blue Royal Navy outfitting, standing just next to John, arms clasped at ease behind his back, simple tricornered hat on his head.

"This here is the first in command, First Mate Winston Knowles," said Masters into John's ear, whispering conspiratorially, wicked smile flashing.

"Oh, pleasure to meet you, sir," said John, offering a hand to shake. "I'm John Silver."

Knowles peered sternly at the offered hand, eyes sweeping over John's rather haggard appearance before sniffing. "Take him to see the captain," he finally said, walking away to yell at some of the deckhands who apparently were not cleaning well enough.

"Don' worry 'bout 'im either, John," said a voice suddenly and John glanced down by his feet to see Matthew pulling the dinghy up, quickly tying a knot to anchor it in place out of the water before jumping skillfully to the deck, "'e's always like tha' too."

"Good work," said Masters, giving the deckhand a smile and a nod before ushering John to the captain's cabin, a hand still on the boy's shoulder.

The deck of the Red Queen bustled with activity as everyone available prepared her to sail again. Barrels of food and drink rolled into the hold as men scrubbed the deck. Holes in the sails were patched and broken pieces of sparring were repaired. Ropes were wound and riggings were tested as all the men picked up songs, switching from melody to melody seemingly at random. "_Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!" _echoed from the riggings, switching suddenly from an old country song, and Masters joined in as he walked John across the deck, dodging a couple rolling barrels on the way. Approaching the stern of the ship, Mr. Masters ducked under the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck, opening the door under them, still ushering John.

John walked into the captain's cabin first, nervously rubbing a strap of his pack again. In front of him stood, what he presumed was, the captain of the ship. His back was to the boy as he stared out the windows lining the back of his cabin, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Wearing bright British red, the man looked very much like a Royal Navy officer at first glance, but his outer jacket flared down and out, longer than was proper for a Royal Navy captain, and it hung open around his body instead of properly buttoned. His hair was short and blond, rather unruly, refusing to lay flat to his head. The captain seemed to be unarmed, but many pistols, rifles and sabers surrounded the room. One fine saber in particular with gold embellishing on the helm, encased in a delicately engraved sheath, sat on display on the captain's desk. Charts and maps lined the walls as well as all manner of sea-faring equipment that John could not even begin to guess a use for. The most dramatic thing in the room, however, was a hat that sat on the captain's desk chair which challenged even Mr. Masters' own in extravagance. The door quietly closed behind him and John peeked over his shoulder to see the jolly Masters and the stern Knowles both standing at attention.

John whipped back around to see that the captain had turned to look at his guests, green eyes hidden under the bushiest eyebrows he had ever seen. He looked to only be about in his mid- to late twenties, but he held himself like someone much older. The captain looked sternly at John for a minute and then prompted, "Well?"

John licked his lips, furiously rubbing the spot on his strap. Knowles cleared his throat and John jerked his hands to his sides, practically feeling the disapproving look on the back of his head. "Ah, well, sir, I mean, Captain England," began John, speaking quickly.

"Me name's not, Captain England," interrupted the captain suddenly, though not rudely. "Tha's wha' tha crew calls me. Call me Captain Kirkland."

"Aye, Captain Eng-Kirkland," said John, catching himself and licking his lips nervously again, forcing himself to keep his hands by his side. The captain nodded so John continued on. "Well, I came to Portsmouth today to join the Royal Navy. I met Matthew—er—Mr. Pence in the headquarters and he said that he would take me to sail with England. So, that's why I'm here, sir, captain."

"Y' wanted ta join th' Royal Navy?" asked Captain Kirkland, almost as if he had not heard properly.

"Aye, captain. You see, my father was in the Royal Navy," said John, suddenly remembering the letter of reference and pulling it out of his pocket again. "I wish to do as he did." Glancing at the letter, John looked up at the captain and then offered the man the letter, seeing nothing else to do with it.

The captain silently took the letter and opened it, reading quickly over the words his father had written. "Wha's y'r name, boy?" asked the captain, looking sharply up at John after he had finished reading.

"John Silver, captain," said John, flushing slightly, realizing he probably should have introduced his name first off.

The captain nodded, not noticing the boy's discomfort, before sliding the letter on his desk. "I'm na' goin' ta pretend with ya, boy," he began slowly, looking up to lock eyes with John, face stern, "we're na' the Royal Navy, as y' prob'bly a'ready guessed, bu' I knew y'r father, 'e was a good man, an' I wouldn't 'esitate to 'ave another Silver on the 'igh seas."

"Thank you, captain," said John, feeling a brief swell on his chest at the compliments to his father, but not enough to overcome the quiet doubt in his mind. "But, captain, if you would permit me with one question?"

Captain Kirkland smirked and then nodded. "Aye, an' I'll give y' another one a' tha'," he said drily, smile flashing briefly across his face which seemed to brighten the man's entire stern outlook.

"If you're not Royal Navy men, and you're clearly not merchants, then what are you?" asked John, already guessing at the answer. He might have been a country boy, but he was no fool.

"We are gentlemen o' fortune," said Captain Kirkland simply.

"Pirates?" asked John, voice slightly higher than usual.

"Only sometimes," answered the captain, voice pleasant enough, but face otherwise absent of emotion.

John swallowed nervously, quickly weighing his options. He knew he probably still had the chance to return to the Royal Navy headquarters, but with his letter now in the captain's hands, it would be rather rude to ask for it back. Not to mention he did not know quite how he felt about breaking the law, even though pirates were more a law unto themselves. The captain did say that he knew his father, so did that mean his father was…? No, John just couldn't see his gentle father as a pirate. Opening his mouth to refuse to stay, Flint's smirking face flashed across his mind's eye, just daring him to chicken out.

Sensing his hesitation, Captain Kirkland seemed to soften slightly. "I won' say tha' this life is easier er better'n a life in tha Royal Navy, bu' it is more free. We give y' tha' chance ta leave if y' want, an', if et makes y' mind any easier, we do perform services fer 'is Majesty from time ta time."

John nodded. From Flint's smirking face, to the knowledge that he could leave when he wanted to, his mind was made up.

"Captain Kirkland," said John, looking at the captain in the eye, "if you need me, I humbly offer my services as a cabin boy."

Captain Kirkland gave a quick nod. "Well then, welcome aboard, Master Silver." Suddenly turning to grab the elaborate tricorn hat off of his desk chair and sweeping it on his head, the captain finally acknowledged his two officers. The captain's hat was bright red with fine white lace trimming, a rather extravagant burgundy feather brushing his back. "Mr. Masters, will y' please take tha lad to Mr. Quint down in tha galley. Mr. Knowles, how soon er we ta sailin'?"

With that, Second Mate Masters ushered John back out of the captain's cabin, closing the door behind him, cutting off the First Mate's report.

"So, what did ya think o' the captain?" asked Mr. Masters, smiling encouragingly at John.

"He seems very stern, but, well, he seems like quite a man," said John honestly. He still didn't know quite what to think of the captain. He had barely met the man, and yet. And yet. There was something about him that he immediately recognized, as if he was looking in a mirror for the first time in a long while and seeing a reflection of himself that he did not quite remember

"Aye, the captain has his own ways," acknowledged Mr. Masters, a mysterious expression flashing through his eyes, before he gave another quick smile to the boy. "One thing's for sure, his voyages are never boring. So, what say you we head over to the galley?" asked Mr. Masters, even though John did not have much choice in the matter, as the second mate lead the new cabin boy toward the bow of the ship, going toward the forward stairs to a lower deck, dodging working crew members the entire time.

After climbing down the stairs, the pair found themselves in the ship's galley where a pleasantly round man directed crew members as they brought supplies into his kitchen.

"Be careful with tha', ye 'ear me? Leastwise we won' 'ave fresh meat 'til we reach Tortuga," he called, warily watching the sailor who was setting a crate labeled "salted pork" into a pile of many other such crates. He seemed almost protective of his supplies, moving to rearrange the crate once it was placed on the ground by the sailor before wandering over to Mr. Masters and John. "Don' mess anyting while I'm na' watchin'," he ordered quickly over his shoulder.

"Wha' d' ye 'ave fer me now, Owen?" said the man, turning to Mr. Masters, mock sternness on his face, looking curiously at John. John on his part blinked for a second, finally remembering that Mr. Master's first name was Owen, before giving the new man a nervous smile.

"This here is John Silver, the new cabin boy," said the second mate, introducing John. The boy stuck out his hand which the man, who John rightly assumed as the cook, shook. "John, this is Bartimaeus Quint. He'll be watching over you." Mr. Masters smiled at the pair as they shook hands before turning on his heel to head back upstairs to attend to his duties. "I'll see you around, John, and Bart, I expect we'll be sailing soon."

"Thank ye, sir," responded Mr. Quint with a nod as the second mate climbed the stairs. The large cook sighed and scratched his head, fading red hair a fine stubble on his scalp, as he looked over John again. "'ere's 'opin' tha' yer more 'elpful than tha last one."

"Last one?" asked John nervously, countless possibilities rushing through his head as to the fate of the last cabin boy.

"Aye, James Flint," said the cook, scowling at nothing in particular, "s'ppose ta 'elp me in tha galley bu' I can' keep 'im away from the guns, always tryin' ta figure out how tha blasted tings work."

"Oh," said John, unable to keep the disgust off his face as he heard the unpleasant boy's name. "We've met."

The cook arched an eyebrow at John before descending into peals of laughter, ample stomach rolling with the motion. John blushed slightly, he hadn't meant to be funny. The cook thumped the boy on the shoulder, guiding him deeper into the galley, moving from the eating space lined with tables and benches to the more kitchen-like area with stoves, ovens and countertops all in a very concentrated space. "I tink we'll git along jus' fine."

John smiled in turn, happy the cook did not seem to be a stern man. "I hope so, sir."

"First off," began the man, glancing around the kitchen and shooting a scowl to the sailors who were still, in his opinion, sloppily unloading the food stuffs in one motion, "thar's no 'sirs' 'ere, jus' call me Bart. Second off, this space is mine—'ere and only 'ere I am tha cap'n, an' the cap'n knows et. Don' blink at me like tha', b'y," said Bart, chuckling good naturedly as John was doing just that. "We don' let the cap'n down to tha' galley, 'cause, with all due respect, 'e can' cook worf a wit." The cook traded a conspiratory wink with the boy. "Ye could say et's in 'is nature.

"Secondly—," began Bart.

"Um, thirdly, Mr. Quint," corrected John, not able to give up on the formality, his mother had raised him well.

"Righ', tha's wha' I said," said Bart breezily, arching an eyebrow at the "mister" but otherwise ignoring it, "ye'll report ta me brigh' an' early an' I'll set ye ta work. I s'pect I'll wake ye the firs' day, er Flint migh', bu' after tha' ye'll 'ave ta wake on yer own. We work all day ta prepare three meals fer the crew and a separate three meals fer the cap'n, the first an' second mate, an' the quartermaster which ye'll deliver ta them 'n tha cap'n's quaters. Once the crew an' tha officers er done wif thar food, we clean up an' begin all over again. You got that, b'y?"

"I think so," said John, sighing slightly. He couldn't help from sounding a bit disheartened, this was beginning to sound like less of an adventure and more like work.

"Cheer up, lad," said Bart, ruffling John's hair which made the boy give a grudging smile. "We 'ave fun 'ere, tha cap'n always keeps tings interestin'."

The cook glanced around his kitchen before nodding to himself. "I already 'ave dinner made, so fer now, claim yerself a hammock in the foc'sl, an' go watch tha launch."

"Right. Thank you, Mr. Quint," said John, blinking furiously and then licking his lips. "Um, what is the foc'sl?" he asked nervously after a pause. He may have grown up with his father's Royal Navy stories, but they did not include practical things like where everything on a ship was.

"Tha forecastle, lad," explained Mr. Quint patiently, pointing to the staircase that Mr. Masters and John had come down a few moments earlier, "et's w'ere tha crew sleeps. Jus' follow those stairs down another level an' 'ead toward tha bow, tha's front of tha ship."

"Thank you, Mr. Quint," said John, flashing a grateful smile before turning to head down the stairs.

Bartimaeus Quint, for his part, turned to the crew who was still unloading food into the storage area by the galley. "Wha're ye lot doing wif tha' flour? Place et over wif tha rest o' tha dry storage tings, elsewise ye'll 'ave 'ard bread fer tha voyage!" he barked at them, and then went to help when they weren't doing it just so.

"We'll 'ave 'ard bread anyways," muttered a voice.

"I 'eard tha', Stevens," retorted Bart, resettling the sacks of flour nonetheless.

Meanwhile, John trotted down the stairs, having to lean to the side when he was not moving fast enough for the busy sailors. Finally he reached the deck below the galley and turned toward the bow of the boat, easily spotting the hammocks that swung from the low ceiling. For the hammocks that were claimed, there seemed to be nets of personal items hung from the same hook that supported one side of the hammocks or, if not, belongings were simply tossed into the empty sling of the hammock. Peering around, John carefully picked his way through the hammocks, searching for one that wasn't claimed.

"What're ye doin' 'ere?" asked a voice, and John looked around, peering into the gloom before finally spotting a boy lounging in a hammock, whittling a piece of wood. It was none other than James Flint and John struggled to hide his displeasure at meeting him there.

"I'm looking for an empty hammock I can use," said John civilly enough. "Mr. Quint was looking for you, you know," he added, subtly taking a verbal jab at the boy

"Tha cook 'as done fine on 'is own, don' know wha' they need me fer," said James sourly, carving a particularly brutal cut into the piece of wood."

"Well, it's what they hired you for, isn't it?" asked John, slightly bemused.

James let out a wordless grunt of disgust, dropping any pretense of politeness, not that there was much of one, and just swore under his breath. At first, John assumed he was cursing the cook blue but then he caught something along the lines of "spoilt country boy", and frankly, he did not mine that he had not heard the rest clearly. Opening his mouth to respond, he then caught himself and closed it, it would not be wise to start a fight his first day on the ship because he knew if he retorted, there would most certainly be a fight.

Flint stared at John for a second and then offered a strange smile that was much scarier than his swearing. "Tha hammock next ta mine is tha only one tha's free." The boy pointed to a limp hammock next to his own just by to the wall.

"Thanks," said John suspiciously, walking over to the hammock. Carefully inspecting the hammock, making sure there weren't any holes in it, or worse, before slinging his pack into it, deciding to look for a net for his things later.

John could feel the other boy's eyes on him, watching him like a cat that had just seen a mouse. "I 'aven't got yer name yet," said James Flint lazily, putting his knife back in his pocket and placing his whittling aside before getting up and slouching over to stand over John.

"I'm John Silver," said John, not offering his hand to shake, looking steadily up at the boy. Flint scowled down at the boy, trying to intimidate him and furious that he wasn't blinking.

Suddenly Flint lunged, as if to jump at John, and the younger boy tensed, bracing for what the older one was about to do. Breaking off the move just as suddenly, Flint laughed a cruel laugh. "Why're ye flinchin', boy?" asked Flint, malicious smile on his lips. "Nothin' ta be 'fraid of 'ere." He laughed again and then shoved past John, pounding up the stairs to a higher deck.

Letting a sigh hiss out through his teeth, John relaxed fully for the first time since he saw Flint in the crew's quarters. Checking his pack one last time in his new hammock, he followed Flint up the stairs, anxiety from the meeting with the unpleasant boy leaving him as his excitement for the launch returned.

Finally emerging onto the deck, John looked around to see a new type of busy-ness had settled on the crew. Now sailors were no longer checking the ship's gear or loading supplies but were up in the rigging loosening the ropes that kept the sails bound. Another group of sailors towards the bow of the ship cranked the mechanism that slowly raised the anchor out of the water under the supervision of Mr. Masters. Mr. Knowles, for his part, stood on the quarterdeck with Captain England, keeping an eye on the crew up in the riggings. The captain stood proud next to the man at the helm, almost as if he were steering the ship. The sword that John had seen on the captain's desk was now strapped to his side, glinting in the late afternoon sunlight, the captain's hand resting gently on the hilt.

Feeling rather useless, John turned to go stand by Masters, hoping that the man would explain to him what was going on.

"Silver! John Silver!" called a voice and John turned to see the captain looking at him from his position. Giving a quick smile, John trotted up to join the captain, heart pounding at being called over by him.

"This y'r firs' launch, John?" asked the captain, standing at ease, weight evenly balanced as he calmly watched the proceedings. Knowles's eyes flicked once to acknowledge John, but then returned to watching the crew in the riggings. Sails were beginning to flap open now, unraveling as the crew undid the knots and swelling with the stiff breeze.

"Aye, captain," said John excited, his eyes shining.

The captain just nodded, a fond smile warming his face as he stared over the deck of his ship, the first prolonged emotion John had seen on the man yet.

"Captain, the anchor is up," reported Masters, taking the steps two at a time to get to his captain's side and joining Knowles in the examination of the riggings.

"Good," said Captain Kirkland, fond smile leaving his lips as a fiery glint entered his eyes though he kept his voice calm, "le's be off then, Knowles, we've go' a distance ta go b'fore we catch up with Carriedez."

Knowles nodded mutely before raising a whistle that hung around his neck and blowing a sharp series of blasts. The crew, clearly knowing the meaning of this, cheered, though continued at their work and the helmsman regripped the wheel, his bald head reflecting the sunlight.

It was tense for a moment as the Red Queen paused, wind not quite pulling her yet, but then the helmsman tapped the wheel, almost caressing it a couple degrees clockwise and the sails snapped full, wind rushing into them and the ship was on her way. The crew picked up another song, singing joyfully, as the Red Queen sailed out of Portsmouth's harbor.

"Excellently done, gentl'men," said Captain Kirkland, nodding to his two mates and the helmsman, glancing at John before heading to the stairs to go back to his cabin.

Masters smiled as he watched his captain leave, but Knowles just scowled up at the crew still hanging in the riggings.

"Oh, cheer up, Knowles," said Masters, nudging the older man, playful smile on his face. "Let the men have their fun while they're not sick of this boat yet."

"Singing is just not proper," insisted Knowles, turning his scowl to Masters now as the second mate just returned the look with an innocent one. "When I was with the Royal Navy—"

"But you're not with the Royal Navy now," Masters cut off smoothly, as if had done so hundreds of times before, "you're with Captain England. You know how he likes things."

Masters opened his mouth as if to say more but then shut it again, giving a mischievous smirk as the first mate just muttered into his collar and wandered to the main deck to inspect how the crew was doing.

"You'll see, John," said Masters, looking sidelong at the boy who had quietly watched the whole situation. "Knowles is a great sailor, wonderful first mate, but he don't quite know how to have fun—stiff from too long out in the sea spray, I think—which is why the captain hired me, just to make sure Knowles doesn't break under the pressure. O' course, that sounds like I'm bragging," he added, almost as an afterthought, but not as if he particularly cared.

John snorted at the presumptuousness of the second mate, as the man just chuckled to himself. "Off with you, then, I'm sure ol' Bart has a job for ya now."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Notice how long this chapter is. (Well, if you've gotten this far, then you obviously have.) Anyway, my point in this is that most of the chapters in this story are going to be about this long or longer, so prepare for the long haul, kids. I hope you enjoyed what you read, and thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm glad people are actually enjoying this slightly odd crossover.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for such a long wait for this chapter! I've had it sitting on my computer since this past summer, but it took a study break for finals for me to final publish it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine!

* * *

><p>Chapter 3: Cabin Boy<p>

John had just about had enough of this. Well, it wasn't entirely fair to be so general. He really enjoyed working under the cook Bartimaeus, the man was fair and made him work hard, but he also seemed to have an innate understanding of exactly how much work the boy could handle, and was always encouraging, keeping John going when the days got long. John also enjoyed talking to the men on the ship, getting witty insights on the officers from Masters and honest thoughts on pretty much anything else from Pence. From what little he was able to talk to the crew when Bart wasn't keeping him busy, they seemed like good men, but those times had been few and far between.

Mostly the "this" John was thinking of was, of course, James Flint.

It had started it out small, petty pranks such as not waking John up the first couple of mornings of the voyage when his body was not use to the schedule and causing him to be late for breakfast preparations. The boy would smirk at John as the younger boy came scrambling up the stairs, pretending to help Bart in the galley. The old cook would just glance at James, slight frown on his face before he assigned John a job to do. It probably did not win John any favors with Flint when he overheard Bart scolding the unpleasant boy later. Fortunately, John quickly grew used to the schedule and didn't have to rely on James any longer to wake him up, sometimes even getting to the galley before the older cabin boy. So, after the first couple days, James dropped that form of hazing.

However, he quickly discovered a new favorite pastime. In John's first couple days of the voyage, he still did not know all the different names for the various parts and places on the ship, so when he was given instructions to take some such thing to some such place he would often not know where exactly that was. If he was lucky, the person would stick around long enough for John to ask where that place was on the ship, but sometimes the person left before he could ask and he was left to wander the ship until he found someone to help him. One night, he was given a message to deliver to Masters who was apparently in the wardroom. The man left before John could ask where on earth the wardroom was and, out of desperation, John asked James where he could find it. Fortunately, Masters himself found John not too long after as the cabin boy was exploring the main deck of the ship, poking around the bow by the figurehead.

"What did he tell you now?" asked Masters, not needing to clarify who the "he" was, they both knew. Even though he was trying to sound sympathetic, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

John swallowed and examined the deck below him, not meeting the second mate in the eyes. "He said the wardroom could only be accessed through the figurehead."

Masters let out a guffaw before smothering it behind a hand. John wanted to melt into the floor. It's not that he trusted Flint to actually tell him the truth, he just had no idea what the different terms meant. A wardroom might as well have been a room behind the figurehead for all John knew. Not to mention John didn't understand how someone could be so petty and stupid all the time. Although, it did not speak much for his own intelligence, John supposed, that he had fallen for the trick. Again.

"Come lad, give me that message and then you and I will have a quick tour of the ship, names and all," said Masters when he finally controlled himself.

John gave a bashful smile before passing on the message and then following Masters on the tour of the ship. (As it turns out, the wardroom was where the officer's quarters were towards the back, or stern, of the ship.) So, fortunately, that mode of James Flint torture was also relatively short lived, but this did nothing to calm down the boy's craving for making John's life miserable. If anything, James' tricks just got meaner.

The second week of the voyage, the other men of the crew began to look at John oddly, keeping their distance from him and, if possible, not directly looking the boy in the eye when he served them food. John tried to be friendly, but was utterly perplexed as to what had gotten on the men's minds. _Perhaps they were just getting tired from the voyage,_ John decided when he finally got his food and settled down at a table.

The men already at the table gave John a quick look before getting up and leaving one by one, trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. John soon found himself alone at the table. _Right, tired of the voyage_, John thought sarcastically to himself, huffing out a sigh and looking around the eating area to see that the only one looking at him was Flint, a cruel smirk on his face.

Suddenly an empty plate thunked down next to him followed by a tankard. Glancing up to see who his new dining companion was, John saw it was none other than Matthew Pence and almost kissed the man in thankfulness.

Pence eyed John carefully, as if worried that John might suddenly sprout another head, but tried to act relaxed. John sat patiently for a few minutes, waiting for the deck hand to say something as he quietly munched his food, but the man just continued to stare at the cabin boy, and frankly, John found it rather uncomfortable.

Finally, he got tired of waiting for the man to say something and let out another forceful sigh. "What is it, Matthew?"

The man nodded as if confirming something to himself. "Well, y' see John," said Matthew, looking around to eye the rest of the galley before speaking again, "now, I don' hold much ta 'ear say o' the men, an' I won' believe a word o' et if y' tell me et's na' true. I believe y' John no matter wha' tha other men say—"

"Oh spit it out, Matthew," cut off John, not meaning to be rude, but now rather concerned about what the men were saying particularly if it was about him.

"Righ', righ' sorry John," Matthew apologized quickly before moving on, as if pulling together the nerve to say what he needed to say. "Well, tha men er sayin' tha y' 'ave a certain birthmark tha proves y' were cursed by a witch."

"A birthmark?" repeated John flatly, not believing what he was hearing.

"Aye, a birthmark on y'r..er, well et's na' a place y' mention in p'lite com'ny," stammered Matthew, a slight blush creeping up on his cheeks as he floundered slightly. "An' they say tha mark is s'ppose ta curse anyone who looks at y' in tha eye wif boils. Also in tha imp'lite region."

John gaped at Matthew for a second as the man looked pointedly back at the boy. Finally John made a noise of disgust and shook his head. "That is utterly and completely ridiculous," exclaimed John, looking around the galley again to glare at Flint.

"Bu' is et—?" began Matthew.

"And it's completely false!" added John quickly, cutting off the deckhand again.

The man thumped John heartily, knocking the wind out of him like it did two weeks before. "I knew y' weren' cursed, John," said Matthew happily. "I ne'er believed et fer a minute." Although he sounded entirely too relieved about John's answer for that to be completely truthful. "I knew tha men were jus blowin' tha wind," he concluded, before standing up, taking his empty plate and mug, and returning to his former table, presumably reporting this to the other men.

They all seemed to take John's word as truth and some even moved to rejoin him at the table, engaging him in their conversation. James, however, looked as sour as ever and soon left the dining space, his meal only partially done.

John didn't know if James tried to start any other rumors, but they never spread as wide as the first one. Clearly the rest of the crew now knew to take James' words with a grain of salt, which was a nice break on John's reputation, but did not stop James from making John's time at sea horrible. Evidently, he was beginning to run out of ideas as the next week and a half or so there was not much in the way of hazing, although John should have realized this was just the calm before the storm as things got much worse.

It all started again towards the end of the first month on the voyage. At first, it was small. James would poke John every so often as he slept, keeping the younger boy awake. Even though this deprived the older boy of rest as well, this did not seem to deter him. He had began to shirk his duties again. This did not seem to surprise Bartimaeus, but he did grumble about the lad whenever he saw the boy, and John noticed his work load quietly increasing. With James not pulling his weight, the hours got even longer and John sometimes found himself the last to go to bed on the Red Queen, staying up late scrubbing pots, and the first to get up in the morning to prepare for breakfast.

Bartimaeus even tried lodging a complaint about the unhelpful cabin boy with the captain, which the man noted, but, as Bart reported to John one night, since they were in the middle of the ocean, there was not much the captain could do about it. He didn't seem to be one to throw the boy overboard, much to Bart's disappointment, and putting him in the brig ("Tha ship's prisen ta ye, John," Bart told him) would not do much good in reforming the boy. Everyone else on the ship was busy with their own duties so it did not make sense to give the absentee cabin boy to them to watch over.

So, James kept poking John in his hammock, and the little sleep that John got was interrupted and unrestful. Finding his temper fraying from lack of sleep, John wished there was something he could do to the horrible boy to make him stop, but John did not want to cause trouble. Not to mention it seemed too much like tattling if he told Masters or Bart about his problems.

This continued on for about a week until it too seemed almost a habit. If John could have seen himself, he would have been somewhat horrified at the transformation that occurred in the month and a little bit of Flint torture. John now had dark circles under his eyes and his hair always seemed to be slightly mussed. His clothes now had the slightly wrinkled look as if he had slept in them (he had), and it was all he could do to get through a conversation without yawning. The men were starting to notice this and many began keeping a closer eye on James—it was something of an unspoken rule that any trouble on the ship came from Flint. James, however, sensed their eyes and was even more careful and cruel.

One afternoon, about a month and a half into the voyage, John was looking through his pack for a cleaner change of clothes. His mother had packed him two sets and John reckoned it was about time to change his currently soiled clothes to something that was less soiled. Long ago, John had found some extra netting to sling his pack up into during the day and now he had the whole arrangement—pack, netting, and miscellaneous items in the pack—on his lap as he looked for the cleanest set of clothing. Suddenly he paused and looked around him sharply; something was missing.

Mentally running through the list of items his mother had packed for him, he tossed things back into the pack, checking them off his mental list as they went. Through his mind suddenly flashed the image of thief with his red purse. He gasped and stood up. He knew he had gotten the purse back and that he had returned it to his pack, but after he put his pack on his hammock the first day, he did not know what became of it after, though he had a very good hunch.

Taking the stairs two at a time, John ran up to the galley to see Bart finishing the clean up from lunch and beginning the dinner preparations.

"Ah, there ye are, lad," said Bart once the cook saw the boy run up the stairs, "How's about ye start peelin' sum potatoes fer dinner tonigh'?"

"Sorry, Bart," said John, biting his lip. Even though he was worried about his purse, he still didn't feel right about refusing an order. "I need to find James. Have you seen him?"

"Na' recently, why? Wha's 'e done now?" asked the cook, pausing to look over the worried cabin boy.

"Well," said John, not wanting to outright accuse Flint of anything without solid evidence first, "It's just…I can't find my purse."

The cook's face clouded over and he thunked the pan he was scrubbing onto the counter, drying his hands on his apron as he moved out to join John in the eating area. "Le's fine tha' b'y," muttered Bart, his voice low and dangerous.

The cabin boy and the cook made the rounds of the ship, asking everyone they passed if they had seen James Flint recently and telling them to send him their way if they did find him. It was only when the pair went back below deck and turned to head toward the stern of the ship, entering the space where the cannons were held, that they actually found him. Walking with grim steps, Bart seemed to know where he was going.

"Don' know why I didn' look 'ere b'fore," Bart muttered to himself.

Passing all the cannons and the closed gunports, the pair finally reached the very back of the ship and, in the corner, a certain sour-faced dark haired boy sat among the piles of cannonballs and powder kegs.

"Where is it?" John blurted out causing the boy to jerk his head up, almost as if he were surprised, glaring at the two.

"I didn' do et," he murmured as if he had been sleeping.

Bart, for his part, almost seemed to snarl. "Up ye git, b'y," said the cook coldly, grabbing the elusive cabin boy by the arm and yanking him up by the arm. "Tha cap'n will 'ear 'bout this. I don' care if 'e's na' one fer punishment, something will be done wif ye," he continued, half-dragging James down the floor, ignoring the boy's protests of innocence. Suddenly, the old cook turned to look sharply at John. "Git yer tings, b'y, as eviedence." The man's eyes were hard and John shuddered under the weight, thankful that he wasn't the cause of the anger behind them before scurrying another level down to get his pack.

Appearing on deck a few minutes later, John found most of the crew had gathered to watch the proceedings. Edging his way to the front, other crew members soon realized who it was that was trying to get through and let him by before turning back to watch the drama. When he finally got there, John found the captain looking hard at James, still in the cook's grip, flanked by Masters on one side and Knowles on the other. The normally jolly second mate even looked serious as the cook reported the accusation of the stolen purse.

"I'm tellin' ye, I 'ave no idea wha' e's talkin' abou'. I didn' take nobody's purse er nothin'," James blurted out sourly, tugging his arm that was in the cook's hold, trying to free himself but finding himself not able to get away. Catching sight of John as he broke through the crowd of gathered men, he scowled at the boy before turning to look to the captain and the other officers again. "'e's jus' tryin' ta make trouble," said James, pointing an accusatory finger at John. "e's 'ad et out fer me since tha firs' day 'e joined the crew."

"Switch that accusation around and you've got it about right," snapped John, shooting a scowl right back at the boy before turning to address the captain as well. "I was going through my pack today looking for a new change of clothes and I noticed my purse was missing."

"So ye immediately accuse me?" interrupted James, arching his eyebrows and looking around significantly, seeing if anyone had noticed the immediate fall of the blame. Bart gave the boy a shake to silence him, but voices among the crew muttered as John ground his teeth, tired nerves fraying.

"I thought of you at first, yes, because you are the only one I can think of on this ship that would do something like that," retorted John, starting to shake slightly with his nerves. The crew muttered again at this, many voices rising in agreement, shooting suspicious looks at James Flint.

"Settle down," intoned Knowles, his low voice bringing the crew to silence as the captain stepped forward. Bart pushed James forward, causing the boy to stumble and come to a stop mere inches from the captain. The captain peered down at the boy, one bushy brow arched as he examined the person before him, his face emotionless.

James Flint, for his part, stood his ground, though he didn't meet the captain's eyes. "Well, y've 'eard th' accusations against y', wha' do y' 'ave ta say fer y'rself?" asked the captain slowly, voice hard.

"Wha' I've said b'fore, cap'n," answered the lad, a note of respect in the boy's voice, "I don' 'ave tha purse. Are ye even sure tha boy is missin' et?" The boy whispered the last part, almost as an afterthought, eyes sneaking over to give John a cruel look.

"What? Of course I'm missing it," spluttered John, tiredness finally overwhelming him as he spoke out of turn, wrenching the pack open to begin emptying the contents out on the deck. He needn't have looked that far as his red purse was sitting right on top of his things. John felt the wind rush out of him and he wanted to collapse on the deck. Instead, he slowly pulled the purse out of his pack and showed it to the rest of the crew, mouth suddenly dry.

"Is tha' y'r purse, John?" asked the captain, slight shock seeming to creep into his voice, both eyebrows raised in surprise now.

John gaped for a minute, unable to get the words out. Finally, "Aye…aye, captain, it is." Feeling about the size of an ant, John just stood in shock, mind reeling at what had just happened. "Bu-but," he stuttered, trying to grasp what he knew. How could he have missed the bright red purse among his things? It just wasn't possible! "It was gone! I swear it! It was gone…it was gone."

If you had asked him only five minutes before, he would have sworn on the Holy Book that his purse was no longer in his pack. Now, he didn't know what to believe. His tired nerves made him either want to want to collapse into tears or rip something in two.

The crew walked away muttering, the drama was over now that the purse was found. Suddenly, the younger boy bolted, running across the deck and down the stairs. Masters made a move as if to go to follow him, but Knowles held the second mate back while the captain just looked on, face as emotionless as ever. Bart followed the boy with his eyes before looking to the captain who nodded. Picking up the lad's things, the cook followed the boy down the stairs, going to comfort the child.

Flint remained on the deck, trying to keep a triumphant smile from his face, but failing quite spectacularly as he watched John run away. _Tha' ought ta do et_, he thought, _pu' tha runt in 'is place_, before turning to leave and catching the captain's hard green eyes, so much like his own, and freezing in his place like a mouse hypnotized by a snake.

"Findin' tha purse then was awful convenient," murmured the man, voice deadly as he stared at the older cabin boy. "'aving nothing ta 'old y' on, I can' punish y', technically, bu' I can keep y' busy." James stood transfixed as the captain turned to his first mate. "Mr. Knowles, find someting fer this lad ta do, keep 'im busy."

"Aye, sir," said Knowles, stern face, if anything, harder than usual before he swept forward, breaking the cabin boy from his stare and dragging him across the deck toward the closet where the buckets and mops were kept, already giving orders on exactly how clean he expected the deck to be.

"Mr. Masters, please send fer Mr. Beech an' then meet me in ma cabin," ordered Captain Kirkland after watching the boy being taken away by his first mate. The second mate still looked as if he wanted to follow the cook, but nonetheless followed the captain's orders to go get the quartermaster.

Down in the ship's hold, deep on the lowest level of the ship, Bart found Pence quietly watching over a rather comatose John. The boy sat huddled in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around himself, trying to become as small as possible. Staring at nothing, the boy's face was smooth and emotionless, looking more exhausted than ever. The deckhand looked to Bart when the man came in, face worried. The cook just nodded and this seemed to reassure the deckhand so he pulled himself out of the hold, leaving the cook and the stunned cabin boy alone.

Bart swallowed, face sympathetic as he looked at the boy, before walking slowly over to the lad and wedging himself next to the boy in the tight space. The boy, though he didn't say anything, huddled closer to the cook, almost refusing to breathe for fear of what might come out.

"I brough' ye yer pack," said the cook after a few minutes of listening to the water around them. "Be a shame ta loose someting else after ye jus' go' everyting back," he added without a hint of irony in his voice.

John nodded and didn't say anything for a long time, staring hard at the wall before him. Suddenly deciding something, he inhaled sharply and spoke. "Why does he do things like that?" asked John, voice hoarse, not needing to clarify who the "he" was. He rubbed his nose quickly, trying to stop the pre-tear tickling in it before it started.

Carefully slinging an arm over the boy's shoulder, the cook sighed. "'e does et 'cause 'e can. Et makes 'im feel bigger, like 'e's worf something, an' also 'cause e's jus' plain mean," answered the cook, pulling the boy closer to him. "Now tha' we know, though, we'll stop 'im from doin' et again."

"I don't want to create trouble," insisted the boy weakly, leaning into the man's one-armed hug.

"Trouble fer one on a ship is trouble fer all," insisted the cook.

The boy just nodded, turning his head into the cook's side and beginning to shake slightly. Feeling a wetness on his shirt, the cook just rubbed the boy's back, making slow circles as he let the boy finally relax.

Listening to the water move smoothly around them, John finally felt his nerves return to near normal and was able to look up at the cook again after a long while, sheepish smile on his face. "Sorry, you must think me an awful sissy now," he said, trying to make a joke. "And I got your shirt all wet."

"It's seen worse on it," said the cook, examining the wet patch on his shirt and then nodding to himself as if confirming that yes, he had seen worse. "And ev'ryone needs ta cry now an' agin, et jus' takes a man ta know exactly when tha' is." The cook smiled down at the boy, which the boy returned, though the boy's was rather wetter than the cook's, before the cook heaved himself up.

"Well, I dare say tha crew will 'ave a simple fare t'nigh', bu' they'll jus' 'ave ta deal wif et," said the cook, nonchalantly, thinking of the dinner still to be made as he stretched himself after being in the same position for so long.

John actually managed a chuckle as he stood up and brushed himself off, before the smile fell off his face. "You can't always protect me. What if he doesn't stop?" asked John. _Because he won't stop_, he thought, but didn't say aloud.

Bart turned to look down at the cabin boy, eyes serious; he was thinking the same silent add-on as John. "Ye'll face 'im," said the cook simply. "Ye'll face 'im an' prove ta 'im exactly why ye were 'ired fer this ship." Pride suddenly flashed into the boy's heart from an unknown source as he inhaled slowly and nodded. The cook gave a small smile and placed his great hand on the boy's shoulder, guiding him out of the hold.

Later that night, as John was just falling asleep, he felt a sharp poke in his side. A whispered voice somewhere above him muttered darkly, "Don' tink this is over."

So that's about where John was a week later, and why exactly he felt like he couldn't put up with "this" any longer. It had been quiet on James' end for the week and a half since the purse incident. Though James kept poking John occasionally, the older cabin boy was kept busy by Knowles and fell into his hammock almost as exhausted as John each night. The younger cabin boy was beginning to hope that perhaps Flint had given up on his pointless pranking, but the angry glares that James shot him across the galley whenever the older boy found time to eat spoke otherwise.

John had fairly well made up his mind. He was going to fight, just as Bart had suggested, but he wasn't looking forward to it. On the one hand, John felt like he was sinking down to the other boy's level if he responded with violence. However, on the other hand, John didn't know how much more he could take of this. Still, there remained the problem of exactly how John would fight the older boy, as he had never really learned how to fight. The weeks wandered on, though, and no further pranking came from the older cabin boy.

At this point, John just felt like he was waiting for something to happen, and this was almost worse than being pranked. Nonetheless, John's days again fell into a routine as they continued sailing on—towards what, John had not taken the time to find out yet, but there were murmurs among the crew of treasure. This did not affect John's daily schedule much as he got up rather early each morning to begin breakfast preparations with Bart in the galley. Once both meals were prepared, Bart would send John up to the captain's cabin with a loaded cart of the officers' separate meal, ferrying the meals on trays from the galley up the stairs to a cart on the main deck. John had taken up the job soon after James started shirking his kitchen duties entirely and he found he rather liked it. Although it meant that John had to eat later than everyone else as he waited on the captain, the first mate, the second mate, and the quartermaster, he did not mind as this gave him a chance to get to talk to Masters and the opportunity to get to know the stern Knowles, the emotionless Captain Kirkland, and the elusive Mr. Beech.

Mr. Beech, it turned out, spent most of his time in his quarters in the wardroom area, keeping track of the ship's coffers and determining how much everyone got paid. John perked up when Masters told him this, examining the small, shrewd looking, bespeckled man as he picked through his breakfast, not only because he was interested in his future salary, but also because he had always been rather fond of numbers.

The had quartermaster suddenly looked up, as if feeling John's eyes on him, returning John's stare with a calculating one. The boy blushed and looked away, finishing pouring Masters' wine before retreating to the doorway, his usual post at meals.

After the meal was finished, John would wheel the now empty cart back to the stairs and carry the dirty plates of food on trays back to the galley, beginning the long process of cleaning the plates and starting to cook again for the next meal where it would repeat all over again. Settling into this rhythm, John found himself working easily with Bart in the galley, not even noticing the few hours he got to sleep as his body adjusted fully to the schedule.

Perhaps it was this that made John complacent as he woke up one morning, fully two months at sea to begin his morning schedule. Awaking in the early lights of false dawn, John pulled on his shoes and readjusted his shirt before running up the stairs to join Bart in the galley. The two worked in amiable silence, preparing the morning meal of porridge and bread. John was beginning to feel sorry for the crew as most of the fresh fruit and bread had either gone stale or been eaten, and the meals were beginning to become less and less appetizing. For the officers, though, Bart still managed to make it look presentable, but he had once whispered to John that the captain would just about eat anything no matter what it looked like.

Once the food was all prepared, Bart loaded it on trays which John carried carefully up the stairs to the main deck to settle on the cart waiting just at the top of the stairs. Running up and down the stairs a couple times, John finally loaded the cart up with all the trays just as more of the men were beginning to roll out of their hammocks, groggily rubbing their eyes and muttering darkly over their morning porridge as Bart served them. Smiling in the early morning light, John carefully wheeled the cart across the deck, enjoying the quietness of the morning. He was about to duck under the stairs to reach the captain's cabin when, out from the gloom underneath the stairs, emerged James.

The boy looked haggard, dark hair loose around his face in a mane, dark circles under his eyes. He looked at John blearily and he reeked of strong alcohol. The younger cabin boy had no idea where the older cabin boy had found the alcohol, but he knew James would get in trouble for drinking it. The boy staggered slightly as if he was tired, and John suddenly realized that he didn't remember James going to bed the night before meaning James had been waiting in that spot the whole night. Wrinkling his nose at the smell and the boy's appearance, John pulled back slightly, drawing the cart out of the boy's easy reach and staring coldly at him.

"What do you want, James?" asked John, not even trying to be pleasant to the other boy.

Flint just sneered, tipping his head back so as to look farther down at the boy as he swayed. "Ye think yer so 'igh an' migh'y," he said, slurring his words, "'angin' around tha cap'n an' gettin' tha cook ta do yer dirty work."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said John stiffly. Where was the captain? They were just outside his cabin. John would rather not have to fight, but he knew it would certainly come to that if this wasn't stopped now.

James gave a drunken chuckle, as if John had just made a joke, but his eyes remained hard on John's face. "Don' know wha' I'm talkin' about, eh?" he asked rhetorically, before lunging forward and grabbing the cart out of the boy's hands, jerking it to its side, food splattering all over the deck.

Now the space between the two cabin boys was free as James stood sneering down at John. John stared down at the food all over the deck, tremors running over his body.

"Goin' ta go cryin' ta Bart?" sneered the older boy as John's hands slowly closed into fists.

The younger cabin boy suddenly jerked his face up, eyes dry, as he glared angrily at the other boy, blue eyes snapping furiously. James swallowed nervously despite himself. "James Flint," said the younger cabin boy, voice dripping with venom, as he said the other boy's name.

John managed to get in one good punch to the other boy's jaw, throwing all his weight into the swing, surprising the older boy by acting first. Although he did give the older boy a nice whack to the face, a satisfying crunch coming from the move, John also put himself off balance and stumbled into the older boy, giving James all the opportunity he needed to beat the younger boy to a pulp. Doing what he could to protect his head, John ducked underneath his own arms, curling into a ball, not knowing what else to do other than take the hits. John didn't know how long the older boy thrashed him, but it felt like ages before the sound of yelling broke into John's world of pain.

"James Flint, stop this instan'," came the sharp command which, of course did nothing to stop the older boy until James was forcefully hauled away by a pair of strong hands and given a stern shake like a terrier that had just caught a rat.

John could barely move from his position, but he could hear enough to shiver at the cold harshness in the captain's voice as he ordered Knowles to take the boy to the brig (it seemed like the captain's previous thoughts were being re-evaluated). "Mr. Beech, will y' look over tha boy?" asked the captain's voice over John, taking a slightly gentler note as it drew nearer. "We'll look at 'im in ma cabin."

Feeling the sensation of someone sliding their arms underneath him, John tried to finally relax his body after the pummeling, but couldn't move much beyond his current position, whimpering unconsciously as he tried. "Don' move na', lad," said the captain's voice from somewhere above him, clearly it was the captain who was carrying him. John wanted to nod, but decided this was too much effort because of the pounding that was beginning in his head, and just rested quietly in Captain Kirkland's arms.

John could feel the captain walking around his room and, picturing the captain's cabin in his mind, trying to distract himself from the pain, John guessed that the captain was taking him to his own bed. Attempting to make his mouth work in order to protest, John instead only managed a weak moan, which the captain ignored, laying John gently on his own fluffy bed.

"Mr. Beech'll be back soon with 'is instruments," said the captain to the boy who now was on his bed, voice calm as if this happened often. Owen Masters hovered in the background uncertainly, wanting to help, but not sure how. Suddenly the captain glanced over his shoulder and spotted his second mate. "I tink we'll still be needin' breakfast, Mr. Masters, an' someting fer tha lad as well," observed the captain. Masters tried to smile, worry lines still evident on his brow, and took the hint, quietly leaving the captain, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room was silent for awhile as John slowly worked to uncurl himself, stretching the parts of him that would stretch, wincing at the parts of him that would not stretch. All the while, he did not let out another cry, clamping his mouth closed even as he tasted blood and felt his lip swelling.

The captain watched the boy move, face impassive, not letting on what he was thinking, even though the boy was in no condition to try reading the captain's face. Eventually the boy settled, wincing now as the pain began to get worse, yet trying to relax into the comfortable bed as much as his injuries would allow. "I'm surprised y'r still conscious," murmured the captain once the boy had stopped moving. "Flint gave y' qui'e a beatin'."

John swallowed, wanting to respond, but his mouth still didn't seem to want to work. He settled on opening his eyes, cracking his lids for the first time since the fight began, to see the captain sitting in a chair next to the bed, face somewhat concerned. Almost as if caught off guard, the man gave a quick nod before standing up and walking to stare out the stern windows, admiring the sea in the morning light. "I knew I should 'ave stopped et sooner, bu' I thought this was tha perfect chance ta see wha' 'e would do. I should 'ave stopped et sooner," John heard the captain mutter to himself as the man stared at the waves.

Loosening his jaw finally, wincing at the movement, John made a successful attempt at speaking. "I'm sorry, cap'n," he slurred, trying to move as little as possible.

"Wha' on earth for?" asked the captain, genuine surprise on his face as he turned to look hard at John.

"For ev'rything," John mumbled, wincing as his fat lip protested the movement.

"Et's na' y'r fault, John, an' I'm na' angry with y' neither," said the captain, stern exterior cracking as he moved back to John's side, resettling in the chair. "Y' did better'n many a man I know if tha same ting 'appened ta 'im." The captain reached out as if to brush a hair out of John's face, but pulled back, clasping his hands in his lap. "I 'ave a proposition for y', as et were," said the captain, back to business, hiding behind his cool mask again.

"Aye, cap'n?" asked John, eyelids fluttering as the pain grew worse.

"'ow would y' like ta be me personal assistant an' gen'ral cap'n in training?" asked the captain, leaning forward in his chair as if to impress the importance of this request on John by drawing closer to him.

If John's head hadn't been reeling yet, it would have started reeling then. "Me, cap'n?" asked John blearily, trying to understand what he was hearing.

"I don' know any other John Silvers in ma bed covered in bruises an' gettin' blood all over ma sheets," said the captain sternly, and John blinked twice at the man before he caught the wicked glint in the man's eyes.

"Bu' why me, cap'n?" asked John once he had gotten his head around what the captain had said.

"'cause I like y', John, y're made of stern stuff, an' y've got a good 'ead on yer shoulders," said the captain, quickly listing off the reasons like he was reading a grocery list.

John gaped at the request, trying to refocus on the captain's face, but failing as his vision blurred. "Let's git the b'y's shirt off, so's I can examine him," came an Irish lilt from the cabin's doorway. Mr. Beech, the quartermaster and also apparently the doctor, had returned with his supplies. John would have thought this a significant moment if he wasn't losing consciousness; this was the first time he heard the quartermaster speak.

"Think abou' et," muttered the captain as he leaned in to begin unlacing the boy's shirt. John blinked in acknowledgement as he finally lost consciousness, feeling the captain's cool hands and Mr. Beech's precise ones carefully begin the examination of his chest.

Waking up what felt like minutes later, John found himself in a completely different location, on a completely different bed and, for a moment, panic seized him as he struggled to remember where he was. The room around him was bare, meticulously clean, with four or five other beds around a wash basin on a table in the center of the room. At one edge of the room, a white cabinet with little doors and many drawers stood firmly closed. For a minute, John thought he was not on the Red Queen any longer but rather in a hospital back at home, but John soon registered the gentle rocking of the waves and that told him he was still on the ship. A flash of memory ran across his mind and he remembered the tour about two months ago when Masters had shown him the sick room, peeking in and joking about the time he had spent in the room himself. John noticed his vision on his right side seemed blurry as he looked around the room. Perhaps he had a black eye from the fight that had since swollen. Another flash of memory suddenly jumped through his mind as he remembered the last thing Captain Kirkland said to him.

Blinking at the thought of the captain, he struggled to remember exactly what the man had said as he tried to sit up, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through his arm. All of a sudden, the door across the room swung open and a short man with blond turning to grey hair pushed his way in, arms laden with a tray of food. John smiled at the man, pleased to see the food as well as the elusive quartermaster/doctor, Mr. Beech. "Ah, you're awake," stated the man, Irish lilt floating through the air as he moved to John's side, setting the tray at the end of John's bed. "Let me help you sit upright," said the man shortly, helping John to lean forward and plumping up the lad's pillows so the boy could sit in a more upright position before moving the tray to the boy's lap so he could eat.

"Thank you," said the boy gratefully, suddenly realizing how hungry he was and digging into his meal with vigor. Quickly realizing he had a split lip which was slowly healing, he worked carefully around that, trying to find the best way to get his spoon into his mouth and not bump the spot. Even though the meal was only a weak soup and some hard bread, John still found it absolutely delicious.

"You've got a split lip," recounted the doctor as John ate, "which I dare say you've discovered already. You've got a black eye on you're right side which you probably know about already as well. Your right wrist is sprained slightly, but other than that, there's nothin' too serious. Jus' bruises over your chest an' back, but those'll heal quickly enough."

"Thank you, sir," John repeated in between bites, now doing his best to gnaw the piece of hard bread without making his split lip start bleeding again.

"For what? I'm jus' doin' my job," insisted the man, arching an eyebrow at the boy's rather improper behavior. John caught the look and blushed slightly, trying to restrain himself as he ate. "Anyway, you should be ship-shape in about a week with the bruises and the lip, but the sprain will take about a month to heal fully, so go easy on it, you hear?" asked the doctor sternly. "I don' want to have to fix you again."

John nodded quickly, somewhat cowed by the man's sternness. "I'll try my best, sir," he answered honestly, "but with my work in the galley, I'm not sure how easy I can go on it."

"So you're not goin' to take the captain up on his offer?" asked the quartermaster sharply, taking John's tray away now that the lad was done, setting it on the middle table and helping John resettle himself.

Throughout the doctor's bustling, John gaped at the man. "W-wait," stuttered John, finally finding his tongue once he was resettled, "I wasn't dreaming? The captain really does want me to be his assistant?"

"No, you weren't dreaming," said Beech, looking back to give the boy an enigmatic look before he rolled his eyes. "Aye, the captain really does want you to become his new protégé, though as to the state of the _captain's_ mind, one can only—hey! Where are you goin'?" Mr. Beech yelled after his patient as the boy suddenly jumped out of bed and bolted out the door, running goodness knows where. Beech just rolled his eyes again, and shook his head; if the lad could up and run out of his sick room, clearly he was well enough to not be _in_ the sick room. He sighed, slight smile cracking through his frown. Children.

John, meanwhile, bolted through the ship, ducking through the galley which was empty of all except Bart bustling around in the kitchen. The cook caught sight of the running boy, barely getting a yell in after him before the lad ran up the stairs to the main deck. The cook blinked at the sight and turned to Beech who had just entered the galley carrying the tray. The quartermaster shrugged to the cook as he passed the now empty tray to Bart. Bart seemed to understand the man's shrug as he went back to cleaning up after the most recent meal.

Finally up on the deck, John scrambled around crewmen at work, spotting Masters up on the quarterdeck next to the bald helmsman. "John?" yelled Masters as John ran up to the captain's door, checking himself enough to knock on it.

Knowles opened the door and peered down at the panting cabin boy, raising one incredulous eyebrow.

"Who is et, Knowles?" asked the captain's voice from back in his cabin.

As a way of response, Knowles stepped away, revealing the lad to the captain.

"Ah, John," said the captain, only showing his surprise as he blinked rapidly at the boy, "nice ta see y'r…awake?"

"Captain, sir, is it true? Did you ask me to be your assistant?" asked John, slight blush rising to his face, but not backing down.

The captain's face became serious as he nodded. "Aye, John, I did."

John licked his lips hardly believing his ears, but not stopping the smile that bloomed across his face. "Captain, I would love to," said John, answering an offer from the captain in the affirmative for the second time in two months.

The captain's face twitched as if he wanted to smile but wasn't letting himself. "Very good," he finally said. "I dare say y' need ta rest more b'fore you follow me full time. Off wit' y' b'y, y' deserve a rest."

"Aye, captain," said John, joy bubbling in his chest as he left the captain cabin's doorway.

Masters leaned over the railing, peering down at John from the quarterdeck as Knowles closed the door behind the boy. "Good news, John?" asked the man.

"Aye, sir," said John, beaming happily, and he didn't need to say anymore than that. Masters already seemed to know that had happened and just smiled back.

* * *

><p>Did you like it? I would love to hear what you think of this story so far! Review please!<p>

P.S.- I can't really figure out how to write an Irish accent and make it look different from some of the other accents I'm doing. Any tips with that would be great!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine!

**Chapter 4:** _The Storm_

James huddled in the brig, ocean water unpleasantly leaking into the space, causing his clothes to cling to him wetly. The air was humid and thick and sweat trickled down his brow, mixing with the saltiness from the ocean and parching his throat. He guessed he had been there for about a week, but he couldn't really be sure. The fierce bruise on the right side of his jaw from the other boy's first punch throbbed constantly and the only thing to do was to think, which was probably what the captain intended by putting him down there. Out of sheer orneriness, James wanted to sit in numbness, just to spite the captain, and if it were any earlier in the voyage, before John had retaliated, he would have. However, under the present circumstances, James found he rather did want to think.

As a rule, James wasn't normally well disposed to thinking; he did do it on occasion, but often enough, he rather preferred just acting on his gut instead of thinking the situation over first. His mind now had the time and topic to think over, so think it did.

The topic, of course, was John Silver. Since the first day that Flint had laid his eyes on the boy, he saw him as some pampered, weak-willed country boy who would either washout within the first month of the voyage, unable to handle the work load, or kiss up to the captain and everyone else. Unfortunately for James, the second option happened and now he had to figure out how to deal with it. After many hours of mulling over what to do, James decided that the only thing he could really do was try to become friends with the boy. He couldn't keep trying to drive him away, obviously that wasn't working. Sabotage wouldn't work either, the captain already trusted John too much for James to orchestrate some type of perceived betrayal. James couldn't just try ignoring the boy forever; there was only so much space on the ship. That left making friends with the boy. James grimaced at the thought, not liking what it meant he would have to do—play nice with him. Rolling his eyes, he shifted position and thought this over. If he could at least become friends with the runt then maybe he could show the rest of the crew exactly how much of a sissy John Silver was.

James didn't take the time to contemplate _why_ exactly he wanted to ruin John Silver's life. If he did take the time to think over his motivations, he might have seen how shallow they were. James didn't hate John per say, it was more the fact that John seemed to have everything: a loving family back home, an education and refined speech, his own pack with a change of clothes, and a purse with money! James, however, had none of these things, and what he did have he had gotten by himself, for himself. The blasted kid just seemed so lucky, everything went his way. So, what James was doing really came down to a matter of pride.

If James had taken to time to think about it, he might have realized that he somewhat admired the boy, not only for withstanding the weeks of hazing but also because he survived the fight with James, managing to walk only a couple hours after the incident. The last time James had fought someone, they hadn't moved for a month.

Of course, James did not take the time to think over all of his motivations and instead settled on swallowing any disgust he felt and setting his mind to the painful process of becoming close to the boy. James did not have to wait long as John Silver soon trotted around the bend to deliver a message to James.

A key ring clinked in the boy's hands and James blinked at them as John fitted one of the keys into the lock, turning it to open the door. The smaller boy's right wrist was loosely bandaged, but otherwise he looked like he had made a full recovery. The two stared at each other, John wary about what the other boy might do, James confused as to why John opened the door when he clearly had no reason to such as bringing him food or letting him out to use the bathroom.

James finally licked his chapped lips, trying to get the moisture to talk. "I 'ppreciate ye breakin' me out o' tha brig, bu' there's na' much sense in settin' me free whilst we're at sea," he muttered, standing up hesitantly, offering an odd smile.

John stepped out of the way to let the boy pass, keeping his face neutral as his stomach knotted. "It's captain's orders, actually," responded the boy shortly.

"Why? Wha's 'e plannin'?" asked James suspiciously, taking a step back and looking hard at the boy.

"A storm's coming," answered John. "He says he needs all hands on deck."

James nodded slowly and walked out of the cell, John shutting the door behind him. If James hadn't been so preoccupied with thinking earlier, he would have noticed the rocking of the ship was getting worse and the ship was beginning to creak and moan more than usual. James turned to look down at the boy, an odd expression on his face. "John, I've been meanin' ta tell ye—," he began carefully, shuffling his feet slightly.

"We'd best be going," John cut off gently, noticing the older boy using his first name for the first time since they met. "The captain seemed to think it was urgent."

"Aye," responded James, a fiery light entering his eyes before he dashed away, running toward the stairs to reach the top deck, leaving one very confused John.

_Was James actually trying to _apologize_?_ John thought, staring after the boy, wondering if he was dreaming. _No, couldn't be,_ John decided firmly, _otherwise the world would stop making sense._ Quickly running after the boy, John vowed to keep a close eye on him nonetheless; undoubtedly he was planning something devious.

John caught up with Flint just as the older boy was climbing up on the top deck. Already the sky was darker than when John had gone below to get James. The storm hadn't hit quite yet, John could still make out a dark mass of clouds off the starboard, or right side, of the ship. Even though the worst was yet to come, enormous waves already rocked the ship as she rose and dove over each crest, dipping low before soaring up to meet each new wall of water. The wind pulled at the sails, straining at the masts and the riggings.

Men were scrambling over the deck, running to various locations on the ship as if they had just been dismissed from an impromptu meeting with the captain, life lines trailing behind them. Even those who weren't normally on deck, like Bart Quint, scurried over the deck to their assigned positions. Masters suddenly ran in front of James and John, intent on his course, before his eyes landed on the two boys.

"Ah, James, you're with Bart on bailing duty. John, I believe the captain wants ya," ordered Masters, amiable mouth in a serious line as he barely paused. "Make sure your lifelines are secure before ya start moving around in this storm."

"Aye, sir," chorused the two at Masters' retreating back before dashing off to look for pieces of rope to use as lifelines.

It was James who found some spare rope first and called John over, tying the ends of two pieces of rope to the stern mast before tying one to himself and one to the other boy. "Tha' cap'n wants ye, eh?" asked Flint as he worked, fingers nimbly tying the sturdy rope around John's middle.

John just stared at the other boy, not believing what he was hearing. _Was James trying to be _nice_?_ "Ye-es," he said slowly as James quickly checked each knot, giving each a firm tug as he eyed the boy, face in a teasing smirk. "I'm his new assistant," John finally supplied, wisely leaving off the part about being a captain in training.

James just nodded as if this made sense, before giving the shorter boy a friendly pat on the back. "Ye best be gettin' back ta 'im, then," he said, smile on his face before turning to go to bailing duty.

John reached out with a hand of his own, stopping the other boy from leaving. James turned to look back at John, a brief glimpse of anger flashing over his face before it was smoothed away, but not before John saw it. The younger boy held his ground regardless. "James, are you…are you feeling alright?" John asked, trying to decide how best to ask if James had gone completely insane.

James blinked once at John before laughing, which did not help to soothe John's fears. "I'm fine," he finally answered, "don' worry 'bout me." The older boy left as John gaped at him, more scared of the other boy than ever before. _What on earth is he playing at now?_

John quickly shook his head, shooing away thoughts about James to think over later, turning toward the stern of the ship to join the captain. John passed Knowles, looking up the stern mast at the men in the riggings, taking a position similar to that of Masters at the base of the fore mast. As John approached the stern, he saw that the captain stood up on the quarterdeck, long red jacket whipping around him in the wind as he stood at the helm, a compass in one hand, ship's wheel in the other, his grand saber at his side. Peter Beech stood to the captain's side, a piece of parchment unfurled before him which he squinted at as the wind tried to whip it away. Dodging around the rushing men, John scrambled up the steps to the quarterdeck just as the rain started to fall in fat wet drops.

Most of the men were up in the riggings by the time John reached the helm. Just remembering to pass the keys to Mr. Beech, he ran around to the captain's left. Since he had become the captain's assistant a little over a week ago, he had not often left the captain's side, learning little tips and tricks about being a captain from just watching.

"What should I do, captain?" asked John breathlessly. Even as he had been up on the deck, the wind seemed to be getting stronger, the sails straining at their riggings, ocean water sloshing over the gunwale of the Red Queen.

"Stay by me side, John, I'll be needin' y' yet," said the captain, gritting his teeth as he struggled with the helm, holding the odd compass in his hand. John peered curiously at the compass; he had seen it once or twice before when the captain was going over his maps with Knowles but had yet to get up the courage to ask what it was for as it stubbornly refused to point north.

"Where's Mr. Stevens?" asked John finally, yelling slightly over the howling of the wind, asking about the usual helmsman. The clouds chose that moment to break open, rain suddenly changing from a dull sprinkling to a rush, hard and cold on the deck of the ship and the people on it.

"A li'le more slack on tha lines!" bellowed Captain Kirkland over the noise of the rain, which John heard Knowles and Masters dimly echo, before the captain turned to answer John's question. "'e's aloft. 'e's needed more there than 'ere. Besides, I need ta make sure we stay on course."

Mr. Beech, next to the captain, made a slight noise, a disapproving scowl on his face, and the captain nodded, pulling the helm counterclockwise slightly, gritting his teeth even with the small effort, before holding it steady again. John firmly held his place as the ship lurched with even the slight direction change. With the rocking of the waves, the tiniest alteration in the course dramatically affected the deck of the ship.

"But sir," John protested, finally becoming fed up both with standing and doing nothing and the mystery of the compass, grabbed the helm to help hold it steady. The captain nodded his gruff thanks. "Your compass, sir, it doesn't point north."

"We're not tryin' to find north, b'y," said Mr. Beech sharply.

The captain didn't answer, just pulling at the wheel slightly in order to correct for the slight shift in the direction on the compass. "Pull them in a li'le," he yelled over the wail of the storm as John helped to steady the helm.

Soon everyone on board the ship was soaked, from the splashing of the monstrous waves over the gunwale, to the torrential rain falling from above; John doubted he would ever be dry again. The storm seemed to rage on for hours as the ship moaned, carefully coaxed in the proper direction by the captain's and John's hands on the helm and the men climbing up in the riggings. Every so often, John caught a glimpse of the men up in the stern mast, but the rain was falling so heavily, those times were few and far between. When he did see them, they were grim, their mouths set in thin lines, and tiredness hung around their bodies as they struggled to respond to the captain's and the mates' commands.

John was growing weary as well, he didn't know what time it was and he had no idea how much longer the storm would last. His still healing right wrist was beginning to grow tired, radiating a dull ache. The only passage of time that could be counted on was the rolling of the thunder and flashing of lightning as the dark clouds above completely covered the sky. John's teeth chattered with the coolness of the water and wet clothes against his skin. And yet he didn't complain. The other men were going through the same, and worse, up in the riggings and they didn't complain, so John wouldn't either.

The captain was just as wet as his protégé but he smiled down proudly at the lad as he strained at the helm, holding it steady. He knew he had picked a good human to follow in his footsteps. Looking up from the boy, the captain scowled at the storm, trying to guess how much longer it would continue but not seeing an end in sight. Quickly glancing again at his compass, Captain Kirkland gently tugged on the helm, slowly easing it counterclockwise so the compass pointed straight toward the prow of the ship.

A crash of thunder seemed to rattle the ocean itself, louder than any of the claps before and jolting the men from their relative monotony of the storm as they all glanced up at the sky with new respect. "'old strong, men!" bellowed the captain just as another enormous crash of thunder rocked the Red Queen, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning which arced through the sky, seeming to head directly for the ship.

Many things happened at once in the flash of sudden brightness that the bolt of lightning offered. Captain Kirkland gave an inarticulate yell, letting go of the helm as he pulled the elegant saber out of its sheath and pointed it at the lightning bolt as if challenging it to a duel. John strained against the helm, struggling to keep it in same place, but the wind howled into the sails as powerfully as ever, tugging at the rudder beneath the ship, and John could simply not hold it as it flung him aside. Beech staggered forward to the railing at the sudden jolt of the ship and the men in the riggings yelled as the bolt seemed to change its course from the forward mast to head straight towards the yelling captain. The gloom of the storm was illuminated in a brilliant explosion as the bolt hit the captain's sword, John shielding his view as he leaned against the gunwale to stand.

Blinking the spots from his eyes, John had enough time to gasp as the spanker, the boom on the aft mast, came swinging towards him. He had enough wits to grab onto it as it lurched out over the open sea, knocking him over the gunwale, struggling to catch his breath after the solid piece of wood thumped into his chest, trying to get a better grip. The water below him splashed against the side of the ship, wrapping him in its cold embrace, almost seeming to pull at his body, the rain falling from above making his hands slip.

"Help!" John tried to yell, but swallowed a mouthful of salt water from a particularly high wave as the ship leaned to her side, almost dipping the boom into the sea. John coughed and spluttered, working frantically for a better grip, panicked at the thought of falling into the ocean.

Back on the quarterdeck, tousled hair on end and bushy eyebrows looking slightly singed, the captain reclaimed the helm, a wild light in his eyes as he attempted to right his ship, knowing the hazards of letting her get too far on her side. He still held the sword in his hand, managing to work it so he could hold onto the helm and the weapon at the same time, compass swinging on a cord around his neck.

"Beech!" bellowed Captain Kirkland over the clamor of the storm as the quartermaster/doctor was finally able to pry himself off of the railing and help stabilize the ship. "Where be tha lad?"

A sudden frightened look flashed over the man's face as his eyes glanced over the main deck, picking out one lone safety line tied to the stern mast that trailed up toward the quarterdeck and over the edge into the gloom of the stormy sea. His face hardened as he traded an urgent expression with his captain.

"I can 'old 'er," insisted the captain, bracing himself as he nearly shoved the doctor away. "Git 'im back on bard!" he ordered somewhat frantically.

"I can git 'im, cap'n!" yelled a voice over the storm.

The captain blinked at the figure through the darkness, knowing who he thought he heard, but not believing it.

"Are you sure you'll be alright, cap'n?" asked Mr. Beech, a new question in his eyes; the doctor recognized the voice as well.

The captain nodded at both the silent question and the one the quartermaster actually asked. Beech returned the nod and scurried over to the port side of the quarterdeck, helping the man to tug on the rope as the captain let go of the helm with his right hand, which still clutched the sword, and pointed it at the ship as if beginning to conduct a symphony. The captain twisted the hilt of his sword, at the same time turning the helm in the same direction, jerking the rudder at the back of the ship. The Red Queen strained, moaning at the tension between the course of the rudder and the pull on the sails from the wind.

Looking around the deck and listening to his ship, everything waited for a tense minute before the captain let out a deep groan, finally admitting something he had known all along. Snapping his teeth in a fierce grimace, the captain jerked his sword upward, other hand still firmly on the helm. "Bring 'em in, men!" he yelled as the sails seemed to snap up, completely contradictory to what the wind was doing.

Men scrambled in the riggings to tie down the sails as the captain seemed to slump slightly as if he had just given up something very important.

Meanwhile, John still held a tedious grip on the spanker, feeling the trembling of the ship as the captain tried to right her. Despite the fact that she was slowly leveling, the waves still sloshed around him, tugging him down. Breathing frantically, inhaling water half the time, John tried to pull himself up on the boom, but his strained right wrist just couldn't put forth the effort, so he simply hung, his mind racing crazily with thoughts of possible plans to save himself.

Suddenly the safety line around his waist, he had almost forgotten it was there, gave a sharp tug. Peering up through the rain, John didn't believe his eyes. He blinked a couple of times, not understanding what he was seeing.

"Le' go, John," called James Flint, his rough hands wrapped around John's lifeline, "we'll pull ye in!" Mr. Beech huddled over James' shoulder, his small glasses slightly askew, his hands also on the lifeline.

John swallowed, a whole new wave of fear flashing through his stomach as he stared at the other cabin boy. Oh mercy, what was James planning now? Would the older boy cut his lifeline and send him into the sea? But Mr. Beech was there; surely James wouldn't do that with someone watching. So what was James doing? Why did he come out of nowhere to suddenly help John? Uncertainties and fears bubbled in the back of his mind as the ship gave another shudder and the spanker rattled threatening. "Come on, b'y, jump! We'll catch y'!" called Mr. Beech over the wind.

Taking a deep breath, not giving himself anymore time to think about it, John let go, not entirely sure why he was trusting half of the men that were helping him. The voices of James and Mr. Beech cried out as he fell. John's heart was in his throat as he dropped, praying that the men would catch him, hoping that James wasn't about to do something horrible. Suddenly the rope around his stomach snapped tight and John stopped falling, swinging against the side of the Red Queen. Throwing his arms out to stop himself from whacking into the wooden hull of the ship, John instead thunked soundly against the side, not hurting himself too much, but causing his bones to rattle a bit.

Up above him on the main deck, Mr. Beech and James began to pull, hand over hand, working to raise the boy back onboard. John hung limply, nerves twitching from the stress he just went through, the rope uncomfortable around his middle. Finally John crested the side, to be greeted by James, offering a hand to help him over. Taking it after a moment's hesitation, John grabbed the gunwale with his other hand, helping to pull himself over as Mr. Beech pulled the last of the rope and James tugged on John's hand.

Once back on the deck, John collapsed, waiting for his humming nerves to finally fully settle, rain still falling around him though the thunder and lightning seemed to have calmed.

"Breathe, lad, breathe," came Mr. Beech's voice from nearby and John felt a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder. John heaved, coughing up seawater as he struggled to regain his breath. Quickly wiping a hand across his mouth and eyes, John tried to remove the saltiness from the ocean water. He was only partially successful. He felt completely drawn, exhausted by all he had gone through in such a short period of time. Swallowing a couple gulps of air, John blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, terror of the whole experience finally catching up with him. That would be the last thing he needed, getting laughed at by James Flint for crying.

James seemed to be babbling about something a short distance away, his voice light and careless. Mr. Beech replied in short answers, hand leaving John's back once the boy's breath stabilized, making it very clear that he did not trust the other boy. Taking a steadying breath, John finally pushed back the tears, a slight frown on his face as he noticed the how the voices seemed muffled. Slowly shaking his head, John drained some water from his ears and James' voice was suddenly clearer. "…jus' 'elpin' Bart wif tha' bailin' when I saw John go overbard," reported James, a confident smile on his face, "I didna waste a minute b'fore I ran over 'ere ta grab 'is line."

Mr. Beech's thin lips were pursed as he gave a short nod to the boy, acknowledging the boy's tale, but not necessarily commending it. Breathing finally steady again, John slowly pulled himself to his feet, slightly uncertain as he stood, but nonetheless staring coldly at James Flint. He had had enough. He didn't want to play anymore mind games with the idiot. He didn't want to have any more pointless arguments. This would be done and it would be done now.

John swung his right arm, connecting the older boy on the jaw where the fading bruise from the previous fight stood black and blue against his skin. Ignoring the throbbing in his right wrist, John was surprised by the shock on the older boy's face, but the younger boy's anger overrode any pleasure from this as he scowled at the older boy.

"Wha' tha' bloody 'ell was tha' far?" asked James, voice sounding genuinely stunned as he lightly held the side of his jaw that John had just re-punched.

"I'm sick of watching for you behind my back," John hissed, trembling again but this time from rage as the rain continued to fall. "I'm sick of you plotting stupid things for no reason other than you being a complete idiot." James just stared at the younger cabin boy as the lad slowly approached the older one, finger pointing accusingly at the older cabin boy's chest. "And I'm sick of being scared of you," said John finally, his face an inch away from the older boy. "Do not mess with me anymore, James Flint," ordered John, speaking slowly and clearly.

James held his stare with the younger boy as his mind rushed forward, playing out a thousand possible scenarios in his mind as he held the smaller boy's gaze. If James returned the punch, Mr. Beech would be on him in a second. If he laughed it off, he would, more likely than not, receive another punch from the furious cabin boy. If he simply walked away, he was basically admitting that he was weaker than the other boy. Anyway he looked at it; he was good as thrown off the ship, potentially literally.

Suddenly, James blinked, realization poured into his mind as his eyes flicked over to the captain at the helm. This wasn't about trying to ruin John's life anymore; this was about staying on the ship. James would never admit that his conduct over the past couple months had been horrible and any other captain would have just pitched him into the sea, or at the very least left him at the last port, but Captain Kirkland hadn't for some reason. What James realized more clearly than ever before as his gaze returned to John's face was that he wanted to stay on the Red Queen and he would do whatever he had to to remain on the ship.

A whole range of emotions flashed over the older cabin boy's face as John watched, bracing himself for what he thought would be another fight, before James looked back at him, his face completely bare, a new, curious light in his eyes as he peered at John's face. John blinked at the expression, slightly taken aback at the look on the other boy's face. Finally, James gave a short nod before scurrying away, dodging around Mr. Beech as he hurried back down to the main deck.

"Now, normally, I don' condone fightin' on ma ship," came the captain's voice from over by the helm. John turned to see the captain standing there, sword back in its sheath and compass still hanging around his neck. He stood relaxed now, more so than he had been since the beginning of the storm, but his shoulders held a defeated slump. "Bu' in this case, I tink I'll make an exception. I doubt young James Flint will be doin' much fightin' fer awhile."

John nodded meekly, rage suddenly gone from him and he just felt embarrassed about losing his temper. "You're not mad, captain?" asked John, lifting his head to meet the captain's eyes.

"Mad? Na', I say 'e rather deserved it," said the captain matter of factually. "Besides, thar comes a time when y' 'ave ta say 'enough is enough' an' then take matters in ta y'r own 'ands." The captain's bright green eyes looked away from the cabin boy as he stared off into the distance, as if looking into the past of some long gone memory.

Mr. Beech sniffed from behind the boy before walking back around him to stand to the captain's side, seeming to disapprove of this distracting talk and pulling the miraculously still dry map out from his jacket. Even though the rain still fell, John felt as though the waves were rocking the ship less heavily and the thunder and lightning were more infrequent as the sky began to slowly lighten. Men slowly clambered down from the riggings as all the sails were tied up, returning to the deck to wait for the captain's orders to untie them again. John returned obediently to the captain's other side as Mr. Beech looked up to examine the sails before shooting a look at the captain.

"Aye, we've given up tha chase fer now," said the captain, voice businesslike again.

"Was this even worth it, cap'n?" asked Mr. Beech, as if weighing his words carefully.

"We've made progress," answered the captain, scowling at the sea, "but na' enough." He sighed slowly, glancing once at the boy before looking to his quartermaster. "We may need ta try tha shortcut."

Mr. Beech's breath seemed to catch in his throat before he swallowed, a slight frown on his face. "Sir?" he asked hesitantly as John watched, trying to figure out what on earth the two were talking about.

The captain almost shrugged. "I can' let Carriedez win," he then muttered to himself, so quietly that John almost didn't hear him as Mr. Beech ran down to the main deck to presumably fetch the first and second mates.

Towards the front of the ship, James ran to rejoin Bartimaeus on bailing duty after the sails were tied, his mind in a confused flurry. He didn't know why he had gone to save the boy in the first place. He had happened to glance up just as John was knocked over the side and reacted before he knew it. And even though his reaction to seeing John falling overboard was confusing enough, the thoughts and feelings triggered by John's punch were even more so. A strange smile flicked across his face as a quiet voice in his mind murmured that John was not the enemy any longer. No, the enemy now was not something so easily punched. James glanced back up to the quarterdeck to see the captain standing with John on his right as his mind settled on the one thing he really wanted, staying on the Red Queen.

Bartimaeus carefully eyed the cabin boy as he returned, instantly picking up on the boy's changed mood, but wisely saying nothing. A knowing smile nonetheless flashed across his face as the cabin boy resumed bailing.

* * *

><p>AN: So this chapter was originally going to be much longer, but I decided that, at that point, it would have gotten a little ridiculous. Trust me. So, I promise the next chapter will be longer, but for now, I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter. Review please!


End file.
